the human desires to explore and succeed
are at odds with the desires to be at home and belong
Month: May 2019
habitable
a bird may feel more grounded in a ground-like nest
a fish may be better able to breathe in aquatic air
a man may survive in a city constructed like nature
three tree
I asked the tree and he said he feels like he’s the one that’s really three—even though he has wind-broken branches and fallen leaves everywhere, and one day he’ll be a stump.
using speech-to-text walking home from work on tuesday at 6:08pm
I see the same orange needle cap on my walk home from work every day resting against the curb the same bouncer standing outside the door wearing the same navy sportcoat I figured it was a little early for a Belcher to be standing outside a bar around six in the afternoon so what day after passing by and seeing him for weeks I asked if this is a bar and he said no it’s a start up past the gated construction area that makes me nervous because you have to cross out into the street and the only thing that separates you from traffic is a thin metal fence nobody walks the same pace so you’re always passing or getting pastPeople scala at each other here that used to smile where I’m from speech to text is a kind of art that messes up what you’re thinking in the most serendipitous Waze.
A great Dane sprinted right down the street at me it’s owner had already passed by and I hadn’t realized I fell for a second the fear of being chased down by stop in large animal and before I could react the big dog was passed me already if I were in the wild I would’ve died
Crossing the street talking to my phone like this if I were to be hit by a car I wonder if whoever would pick up the phone would laugh at the unfinished message
Slow down, it’s alright
My flight from San Francisco to Kansas City is delayed.Tthey said our plan is delayed from Everett because the FAA regulates the amount of planes that can arrive at SFO when there is low cloud coverage. Looking out the windows, I can’t see a thing, except gray foggy mist—so I don’t really blame the FAA. It must be hard to be a pilot in this weather.
I don’t really mind the flight being delayed at all. It’s been a stressful week at work, and I’m headed home to see my family. It’s like a pocket in time has opened up. So I just have to sit here and write poetry and read and wait on the plane. There’s nothing I can do about it. My boss knows I’m taking off work tomorrow already anyway. And my sister’s graduation isn’t until the evening tomorrow night.
I love the parts of travel where there is nothing left to do. When you’re hurrying out of your building to catch a car, and you press the elevator button and watch the numbers going up and down—there’s nothing you can do. You’re in the queue. You’ve already fulfilled your responsibility of pressing the button and earned for yourself this small pocket of time. No matter how late you are, or how important the meeting is that you’re going to, you can’t do anything but wait and relax, and the burden of moving fast is lifted from your shoulders.
second street coffee shop
you don’t see old people here you don’t see beer bellies you don’t see kids you don’t see dogs you don’t see people walking slowly you see perfectly slicked hair you see people walking with their headphones in you see jaded, determined faces you see backpacks and handbags, probably containing laptops looking out the window of a coffee shop, watching people walk by on the sidewalk of second street at 8 a.m.
misplaced emotion
like laughing after barely avoiding death, some of our joy makes no sense at all
Night worms
the day belongs to everyone the early mornings and late nights belong to a few
Planetary weight
The weight of the world strikes me all at once. In fits of anxiety, I fear death the most, trying to hold onto what I have. Hungry and leaning forward, I try and wait to eat, to take advantage of my dissatisfaction. Food sickens me, even—as a threat to what I am right now, adding anything might change it. Like everything depends on this moment, and there will be nothing soon after. I become more serious and careful about my survival, thinking now that it is important to go on living, if there is to be more in the future of what I am experiencing right now. I think of going outside, but worry about what dangers lay in wait there.
Editing poetry
They are subtle the things that make a poem good. So when you edit for something like grammar, you can take away the good thing by accident. Like when someone is healthy according to all physical standards, but their mind or soul aren’t in it—so they really aren’t healthy at all.
The rules of poetry cannot contain the idiosyncrasies of human taste for interplay between words and rhythm; this interplay, at its most subtle depths, can only be felt. You can hear it in the crowd at a poetry reading when everyone says “ah” or lets out a sigh at the same time. Words said differently—slower, choked, quietly—mean something different. This is why, when I try to edit a poem that has come to me in a dream, by applying rules of grammar, it loses the beauty that I don’t completely understand, which has come from my subconscious.
A poem is like a complex math problem—instead of two variables, an independent and a dependent (like all the two-dimensional graphs that we learned in grade school algebra)—there are hundreds of dependent variables: the complexity of a thought, the amount of syllables in a stanza, a natural pause denoted by a comma in the middle of a line, the formatting and how it looks on a page. All these, if independent, might be solvable. But they’re dependent, and changing one changes the other.
If you were a very smart mathematician, you could figure it out. Or you could take the musician’s approach and get blasted drunk and feel your way, stumbling to the solution. These are two separate ways to arrive at the same place. I believe the musician is doing the exact same thing as the mathematician by different means. I also believe that this is a duality which applies to more than just poetry.
delete
GROWING UP Younger, I was less afraid to chase a tadpole downstream or throw rocks with my brothers. Since the sides have flipped, I eat my vegetables and take care of myself— finding adult ways of having fun. I think of having my own boy when he’ll invite me to play catch. I’ll do it partly because he’s my boy but also because I want to play too and it’s just been a long time since anyone’s asked me.
Hand writing in the dark
Return to the passions of sea that shape your soul / Drink from the plentiful water there and even drown and lose yourself if you need to / Leave some strength to swim back to shore where wild water passions find direction in river banks / Stand on land that holds strong and firm without moving in the short term unless you really dig your shovel in to separate the form it clings to
Where water takes only the small sleight of hand to empty a glass and have it all splash or spill out / Let the water hydrate your soil and birth your plans without drowning all life there / Passions of water that know no limits in nature, but in human form can only excite so much before we remember there is a code to survival
We can dance in the waves and swim out but only so far, not beyond a possible swim back to shore / And not so deep, longer than the rope that tethers us to the surface
We are amphibious creatures of both passionate waters and structured lands / Completely without one or the other, we would die
Passions of a dream, a dance, a night love in the dark—are beyond our defining / (illegible) that move and inspire action it has nothing to do with what we see cosmetically everyday—the buildings erected, cars driving, people going to work
—man living and doing what he needs to survive. None of this would exists without the dance in the dirt that we came from and the desires for more than just to go on surviving but to live in the moment in passions of ecstasy
—these are the short ephemeral moments that cause us to go on living and also to give our children the opportunity to do so; otherwise what would be the point?
Good writing bad
I have an urge to write something bad just to prove that all language is good.
Selfish
Look outward more, no more writing about yourself. Readers are bored of it quickly. Write about the world. What you see. What you sense. Not these derivative ideas that fill your mind only when you forget to meditate. Float up above your ego and take in what’s around you and put that into word.
Grit
I have K and my job now but I’m stuck on go-go-go and be excited about everything more and can’t just settle down and enjoy what I have; I want to throw it all away and go travel to find myself. But i’m not really finding anything, just throwing it all away to begin again. I need to learn to build consistently and commit to long term goals even when they stop being fun.
Additive and Subtractive Personalities
I feel good and want more of it, more and more until I’m fat and gluttonous and only looking for the next thing to satisfy me, so I start to slim down and focus and delete excess until I’m thin as a stick and hold a lamppost to not blow away in the wind, and hold there and look for something to weigh me down and add one thing and then catch again the fever for adding and forgetting why I ever wanted to take away anything and so again start adding.
Things to remember when you’re depressed
- Think less of yourself
- Express gratitude even when you don’t want to
- Live for others
- Meditate, mediate, meditate (on just your breath)
Banal
Sometimes it’s not the words that matter; it’s how you say them.
Good morning
Everything I touched turned to gold this morning. I was daring and the risks paid off.
Partial book review for The Chosen
Potok uses two events that could each be described in a half-page and magnifies them to the first 100 pages of the book—namely, the ball game and Reuven’s hospital visit. This allows the reader to quickly get up to speed with characters and setting in the context of two pseudo-short-stories that immediately grab your interest.
Stable tenants of self
Do not build your self with glue from a world that does not hold together—ideas of who you are, how you look, what people think of you, how much money you make. All this will pass and often be beyond your control. Build yourself with a stable foundation like your breath and unconditional gratitude and love. For as long as you live you will have your breath. You can always be happy and grateful if you choose to. These are the stable tenants of the self.
Desire vs. real hunger
So often I am jumping at the slightest desire, before letting myself achieve actual hunger.
A Return to Form
“Oh no, I’m feeling impulsive again. I want a croissant,” K says.
I laugh and say, “I love how you happen upon your feelings like you’ve tripped over something and say, hey, who put that there?”