Poem: Happiness Happens, Actually

Happiness Happens, Actually

Actually sat down for tea, but ended up having rice liquor. She preferred

tequila to both, but took what she could get—you know, he was paying.

She thought, I see no ‘tea for two,’ as promised, and that she’d rather date a

guy with pretty blue eyes because they seemed more “angelic,” but it was—

an annoyance in spite of good looks.

Actually knew better than to answer the call of a blind date and a friendly nudge.

But, here she was, sitting in a clown suit—a tribute to Halloween ‘08

and a week of build up—entertaining thoughts of fucking a stranger

just because and fingering her sake cup erotically.

If this clown suit gets me laid, there is no greater God than Desperation.

And if this guy pushes his glasses up his nose one more time…

Actually wanted to punch him.

Guy made obvious attempts to bridge the gap and distort the awkward silence.

His voice cracked: “You’re a cancer, aren’t you?”

Guy was avoiding the obvious—an avoidance too unreal for Actually.

She took off her red nose and squeezed it, making a fist.

“What about me seems so much like a Cancer, Guy?”

Guy, startled, index-fingered his glasses till they were flush with his ‘brows.

His hand darted for his expensive apple-flavored sake.

Fucking nerd. Maybe his dick is big. Might be this fucker’s only saving grace.

Guy’s lips tightened, reaching sideways and skyward: “Excuse me. That was tangy.”

“No worries.” Actually, taunting a Russian accent, eyed Guy flirtatiously.

“Well, I’m embarrassed. I admit—I don’t know why I said that.”

Actually was a Leo and, at that very moment, started thinking “lesbian” was

the way to go. She lit a cigarette and mentally memo-ed.

Note to Self.

But, alas, she had already been down that road—and pussy hadn’t really spun her skirt.

Actually’s doubts were suddenly slighted by invasive twinges of compassion. Out of nowhere, she felt like doing someone else a favor.

She imagined she would fuck him in the best way possible. She would build him up “hard” and let him down “easy.”

While her short-spurted fantasies played out, she felt herself becoming wet.

“Could it be my unruly appearance and soft pink core?”

40—love.

Actually uncrossed her legs and, with the precision of a beach volleyball nailing the sand, farted.

Her calculations, like two-faced bitches, had turned against her. She was beat-red with embarrassment. Beneath the ludicrous and vindictive veneer of face paint, a semblance of humility began to surface.

Now, it was she who was squirming. She could no longer meet Guy’s once darting eyes with such prowess and strength. She was no longer the beast in the jungle.

And then, for the first time all night, Guy scooted his chair close, leaned forward, and met, what he’d later call, her “fortuitous look of consternation” with the same sassiness she’d had.

He cleared his throat: “You know, I’ve never smashed a clown before.”

And then, for the first time in a long time, it happened—happiness happened. Her once frozen, brokeback mountain heart had been surprised off its high horse just long enough to thaw.

It was then, during the April of those unexpected happenings, that Actually was able to love again.

A Work of Art is Good If It Has Arisen Out of Necessity

From Letters to a Young Poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

Paris

Febuary 17, 1903

Dear Sir,

Your letter arrived just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the great confidence you have placed in me. That is all I can do. I cannot discuss your verses, for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me. Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren't so sayable and tangible as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small transitory life.

...You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should avoid most right now. No one can advise you or help you--no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. Don't write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sounds - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it. So, dear Sir, I can't give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.

But after this descent into yourself and into your solitude, perhaps you will have to renounce becoming a poet (if, as I have said, one feels one could live without writing, then one shouldn't write at all). Nevertheless, even then, this self-searching that I ask of you will not have been for nothing. Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.

What else can I tell you? It seems to me that everything has its proper emphasis; and finally I want to add just one more bit of advice: to keep growing, silently and earnestly, through your while development; you couldn't disturb it any more violently than by looking outside and waiting for outside answers to question that only your innermost feeling, in your quietest hour, can perhaps answer...

Poem: Turtle Baby

In Memory of Judith Gardner, Sean Hughston, and
Souls Gone Home

Turtle Baby

The turtle that carries home on its back carries the

weight of the world without ever saying a word.

Movement is slow but steady.

A turtle will be a turtle, no

more or no less than a turtle.

The Earth spins on its axis around 1,000 miles per hour,

while revolving around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour.

All those (r)evolutions.

From outer space, city lights emanate,

like glow worms or kindling fire.

God is an astronaut, sailing through the

dust and memory of eternal falling stars.

I am His Judas, Her Mary Magdalene, Sweet Jesus, Ruth, the Israel who was once Jacob.

Little turtle babies leave the sanctity of eggshell, rake

the sand with their little turtle baby flippers, return home.

Moths to the Proxigean flame of the new moon.

Soft shells harden with each successive elliptical rotation of

the Earth around the Sun and the Moon in love with the tide.

We’re all following the path of

a kite lost in the infinite sky.

A yellow balloon ascending as one final salute.

What lies below are the memories of

the living—our only afterlife.

On Slights

My aim is to deliver
a toxin to your liver.

The dead dog
is where you
go to die.

To Those Running From Skeleton Woman

A Love Letter December 2006 

 Freeing myself from a place of confusion takes grace, and faith. It takes movement and a momentum that forges a new reality, a state not torn between ways, to make what is dual, whole. Freedom from confusion mostly takes grace, a kind and generous answer to the silent prayers in the heart of humankind. Yes. No. Something as simple as "Tread the path on the high ground. Bring sustenance--food and water. There will be plenty of air." To breathe, deeply. Would suffice. Change is good. It is simple, although it bears the fruit of a new world, of roads taken, of complexities and long, drawn-out answers discovered. (And undiscovered.) There is but one question: It is the flavor of life, the beat of drums that thumps the chest, driving us into a frenzy of feeling, of wanting and needing, of sensing truth and the infinite vibe that drives the chariot. Another world is abloom with the fire of the chariot's wheels. My heart is connected to my head via "satellite." My heart speaks in a tongue my head fruitlessly tries to translate. I tell my head, "You over-analyze--the truth got lost in translation." Forget your Rosetta stone. Follow the voice of the silent muse. Remember and recognize, order and harmony speak in the natural universe, full of mystery, oblivious to the untrained eye, in the language of the Soul. Laboring over analysis, categorization, of what smells of heart and soul is a dubious task that affords only death: It is where dreams die. I mention the word "intuition." I write of the existence of a world that exists inseparably with the world around us. In infinite possibilities. What is "God-plasma?" And the blueprint of the Universe? We cover our heads to block out the sun. But, we need light like we need our Mother's bosom to sleep in at night. We need each other in a language that is not ours alone. It is a language of faith that arose as we took our first breath; the faith and grace that allowed our seed to root and become a tree. We struggle together, weighing our love and our fear, our gains and our losses. That struggle is the force of life in its ebb and flow; its inhalation and exhalation. We are fruitless without this exchange. We are dead without this faith. There is a force that has tied our fates together in a knot. (We untangle each other out of our struggle, in faith and in love, for commitment and lasting union.) Our destinies echo the willingness, intelligence, and love of the Creator, who created us out of tears of joy and sorrow. Tears whetted by the fluidity and soul of the Universe. I understand a secret I am unaccustomed at making practice. I understand the answer, but forgot how to communicate the question. My roots are my soul's decent into the warm mantle of the Earth and her motherly kindness. She caresses my desire with a mirrored desire to give birth, to create. You and I, we have laughed together, but we have not yet learned to cry together. We are at our defenses, watchful of the slightest sight or assumption of indiscretion. Our hearts beat "hurt." Our knuckles are white with anger. Our pain bears fruit of an unseemly and unjust creator. Frustrated with the misunderstanding of the force that guides us, we spin our webs in anger. What follows makes little sense, and soon we begin to notice the web of confusion that was spun in doubt. What was once a simple road is now a discouraging detour. Mistrust and fear, and all that it sparks and spoils, describes our toil. We fear what we want most because we don't believe we deserve it. We doubt life has in store for us the good we desire. We fear failure. We continue to spin our wheels and webs of confusion. Eventually, we'll beat our heads hard enough against the wall, and our hearts will have to take over. Out of confusion comes realization. Out of struggle comes wholeness and new life. Out of wood becomes lumber. Out of this lumber, we build a house. Out of this house, with love, faith, trust, responsibility, kindness, patience, and commitment, we create a home. Out of our home, where we live, grow, and nurture and support a family, we create a temple. Our temple stands as a testament to the labor of our love. Through our fear, we'll never imagine an oasis, a home made refuge out of our labor and love. We will burn down each house we build together until we create a home that, when we enter, out of mutual trust and respect, we wipe our feet and leave our shoes and fears at the door. There is reckoning, and it only comes by the storm of action and awareness. Movement comes from within, not without. It is dependent on your energy for its life. You bear it like only an attentive, loving parent would. Give it what it needs.

Expectant Sinks With Expectation

People have expectations of us. No doubt. Some are high. Some are low. Some people just take it as it comes, with a grain of salt, and accept whatever you have to give. Often, relationships with these people are characterized by ease. Eventually, even these relationships experience a "snag." The snag is most likely due to a failed expectation--their disappointment and your failure to do or be what is wanted, needed, or expected. True friends are able to get passed this snag. They can "see" a person clearly and can easily understand that failed expectations have little to do with the person in question, but have to do with failed communication or acceptance of what is. And sometimes, we have our own reasons for denying a person what she thinks we owe her. Maybe we don't have it to give. Maybe we don't think this expectation comes from need but, instead, from personal desire. Or maybe we just plain don't want to give it.

I've been on both sides of having expectations and not being able to meet expectations. In both instances, there was a lack of desire and even an ability to give, maybe because a kind of poverty, emotionally or otherwise. We aren't always able to be there for others. And the reasons are many. Does that make us bad friends? Maybe. Does it mean we don't care? Maybe and maybe on the contrary. What conditions prevail? We have to take into account individual freedom and will.

Take unrequited love. At some point, we may expect to be loved in return because we feel we deserve it or simply because it's what we want. We may even become angry that we are not loved in return. We may find ourselves in the throes of war because we feel rejected, jilted, slighted. But, whose purpose is it to love us anyway? Who has to love us?

No one does. No one was created to give us exactly what we want when we want it. There's a kind of grace that goes along with reciprocity, with give and take, with accepting and rejecting. An expectation places a condition on something and says it isn't free. It is expected. Expectations fall just short of being demanded. The only expectation that goes without saying is something like treat others how you want to be treated. Human affairs require the generosity of respect, even if without understanding. You may not understand why I do the things I do, but all humans deserve "respect for the dignity of [their] humanity," according to Emmanuel Kant. This is a very basic requirement, a necessity, and need not be called an "expectation." Anything more becomes frill, but not unimportant. Respecting you does not demand that I love you or pay your bills or help you fulfill your wants. The frill of expectation demands that I love you, pay your bills, and fulfill your wants.

You do not owe me a thing. The most essential ingredient to peace, near or far, is respect. Our mutual benefit from and belief in respecting one another is the only requirement for proving it's legitimacy as a necessity.

The rest is given because it wants to be given. You want to give to me, despite any foreknowledge of or acquiescence to my expectations. And I want you to want to give to me. I don't want you to feel, in any way, coerced into giving me what I want. It is then that the gift is not a gift, is not free, but is payment upon obligation.

I've disappointed some people in my short time. I've failed to meet certain expectations and didn't give what another most likely could have given (or did give). At times, I've been remiss, without excuse, except for ignorance. At other times, I just didn't have it to give. And at other other times, I either had a different idea of what I needed to give or just really didn't want to give it, with no thought of how the other person would perceive it.

Not taking things personally is a healthy perspective here. We meet people we want to form relationships with, and we aren't always on equal footing. We may have different ideas about giving and receiving, and we may have different things to give. Circumstances are conditional, consequences are causal, and life is temporal. Our individual wills dictate that we will decide, now and in the future, what we're willing to accept and to give and what expectations we will cast on others. Without judging and holding on, we can be lenient and open. We can allow others the room to give what they have to give, or let them go when we don't think it is enough.

In the mean time, we, too, can sit and think about ways in which we've wronged others and ask for forgiveness, even if our search for forgiveness stays within the realms of our own minds and with other sounding boards. We can be honest about our need for forgiveness and may more easily give it to others. We can forgive ourselves for being human, and forgive others. Then, we can move on, keeping with the flow of conditionality, causality, and temporality.

Gravitas

From June 11, 2010

Connection is the gravitas of human relationships.

Without it, we continue on, starving, haunted by a thirst that can only be quenched by grace, fueled by a need that can only be met when spontaneously given, and unable to experience the release of death, the relief of unbridled acceptance. We go on living, but living without nourishment.

Our mouths seek the mother breast, the milk and honey of intimacy. Without it, we are adults in the desert of inopportune timing. Clocks tick fast or slow. Cups have holes. We're early or late, wet and dry.