i have the eerie sense that all the writing I've done is crap. surely a couple suggestions of immanence or transcendence but really there is this tone of half-assedness pervading.
the good news is maybe a newly minted burned retina. I'm 32 and the rollercoaster gains even toward the precipice. without overreliance on party politics, experience, ideal, idea, ____logy, ______ism, the candle flame shifts and burns. as we sink into the earth.
and the earth is like the sky. the earth is about rest. the flowers go to seed and they wait, inert, hibernating. they die to the earth. but what is the sky? the sky is the same. the sky is where the earth soul rises waiting to become a flower or a baby isabel again. conspiring, sprouting or crying forth, earth and sky become oddly married. this oddity is bodied life. this oddity is forever felt. if seen, we have a dangerous awareness of invisible mountains. if not, we have grasping and turning away, babies of the dark knight, eyes sparking only in conquest.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Takes one to know one
it takes one to know one. this is why the crowd is better than self-selected idealogues at 'knowing' the 'whole truth', which is the only truth worth its salt in the end.
the crowd can resonate with all facets of a thing. by crowd i do not mean mob. i mean multiplicity itself. the multiple approaches the whole. many pixels can be any image. i think this is why obama is such a compelling candidate. he has mass appeal because he is expansive. that is, he is resonant with many people. he can relate to many types of people because he has a bit of each of their truth. he has logic, charisma, heart, pragmatism, humility, confidence, eloquence, rhythm, poetry, athleticism, calmness, vulnerability, feminine, masculine, ideology, openness etc. so, each person sees those parts of themselves in him and they naturally feel connected to him. pixels of many different colors find themselves reflected in his multiplicity.
this is the genius of general election and democracy in general: though this will be forever argued, I am coming to believe that many heads are better than one. and many heads and hearts are better than many heads. and many hearts, souls, heads, hands, feet and voices are better still. it's a massively complex algorithm of awareness whose output is a free choice, an X in this or that box, a VOTE! And for all the heartache of the past 8 years, at this critical juncture it has brought us a leader of the deepest heart and widest mind.
what i am saying here relates to the atheist versus 'religulous' thing going on. atheists are self-selected for a scientific literalism. the religulous are self-selected for a scriptural literalism. literalism is, perhaps, nothing more than being 'too sure' of the truth. each of these camps is too darn sure.
in the stem cell issue, their opposing sureties come into stark relief. the atheist is sure that a stem cell is not life. the religulous is sure that it is. i am not sure at all. as jim morrison once said 'i straddle the fence, and my balls hurt'.
you see, there is much to suggest that a stem cell is a life in its ability for spontaneity in becoming any type of living cell. there is also, however, no way to prove this, least of all scripturally. there is also perhaps a humility to leaving things the way they are and not 'playing god' in manipulating such nascency. perhaps. it might be one of those things you just don't F with-- an 'ends don't justify the means' sort of situation.
there is of course also much to be said for using stem cells in a utilitarian way to heal people. but wouldn't it be too brash to suggest that this is the obvious answer? wouldn't it be too insensitive and downright disrespectfully arrogant not to acknowledge the sacred liminal territory this science aims to tread? to play god in too nonchalant a manner comes close to affirming that might makes right- that scientific power should always be acted on. i would suggest a grey area here.
we are too darn literal! meaning is metaphorical as much as literal. when people talk about stem cells being or not being human life, they are being too darn literal. when people talk about the bible as the only holy book, they are being too literal. one of the many beauties of the human mind is the ability to see parallels in meaning. to unite apparent opposites on the level of shared deeper meaning is what the metaphorical mind can do, but the literal mind cannot.
the crowd can resonate with all facets of a thing. by crowd i do not mean mob. i mean multiplicity itself. the multiple approaches the whole. many pixels can be any image. i think this is why obama is such a compelling candidate. he has mass appeal because he is expansive. that is, he is resonant with many people. he can relate to many types of people because he has a bit of each of their truth. he has logic, charisma, heart, pragmatism, humility, confidence, eloquence, rhythm, poetry, athleticism, calmness, vulnerability, feminine, masculine, ideology, openness etc. so, each person sees those parts of themselves in him and they naturally feel connected to him. pixels of many different colors find themselves reflected in his multiplicity.
this is the genius of general election and democracy in general: though this will be forever argued, I am coming to believe that many heads are better than one. and many heads and hearts are better than many heads. and many hearts, souls, heads, hands, feet and voices are better still. it's a massively complex algorithm of awareness whose output is a free choice, an X in this or that box, a VOTE! And for all the heartache of the past 8 years, at this critical juncture it has brought us a leader of the deepest heart and widest mind.
what i am saying here relates to the atheist versus 'religulous' thing going on. atheists are self-selected for a scientific literalism. the religulous are self-selected for a scriptural literalism. literalism is, perhaps, nothing more than being 'too sure' of the truth. each of these camps is too darn sure.
in the stem cell issue, their opposing sureties come into stark relief. the atheist is sure that a stem cell is not life. the religulous is sure that it is. i am not sure at all. as jim morrison once said 'i straddle the fence, and my balls hurt'.
you see, there is much to suggest that a stem cell is a life in its ability for spontaneity in becoming any type of living cell. there is also, however, no way to prove this, least of all scripturally. there is also perhaps a humility to leaving things the way they are and not 'playing god' in manipulating such nascency. perhaps. it might be one of those things you just don't F with-- an 'ends don't justify the means' sort of situation.
there is of course also much to be said for using stem cells in a utilitarian way to heal people. but wouldn't it be too brash to suggest that this is the obvious answer? wouldn't it be too insensitive and downright disrespectfully arrogant not to acknowledge the sacred liminal territory this science aims to tread? to play god in too nonchalant a manner comes close to affirming that might makes right- that scientific power should always be acted on. i would suggest a grey area here.
we are too darn literal! meaning is metaphorical as much as literal. when people talk about stem cells being or not being human life, they are being too darn literal. when people talk about the bible as the only holy book, they are being too literal. one of the many beauties of the human mind is the ability to see parallels in meaning. to unite apparent opposites on the level of shared deeper meaning is what the metaphorical mind can do, but the literal mind cannot.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
today i heard a long exchange about traffic and which streets to take in what type of weather. it became clear that one man was forcing his knowledge on the other man, who would have much preferred talking about something else. it was an empty exchange because it was not relational. it was an uncalled-for monologue of cleverness meant only to dazzle. he was talking to hear himself talk. there was no real checking in.
as listener I'm sure the second man had just as many salient points to make about the first man's lack of social skills, but you can't really bring this kind of thing up now can you? it's a kind of awareness that is not quantified and does not reach the level of word until there is an emotional angry dressing down of the first man in five years.
the first man and the listener both have a good chance of ending up isolated, but for completely different reasons.
the first man will drive others away with his blind pontifications.
the second will eventually say, as thom yorke did, 'while you make pretty speeches, i'm being cut to shreds'. it is this sensitivity which may drive his seclusion.
I am the second man.
as listener I'm sure the second man had just as many salient points to make about the first man's lack of social skills, but you can't really bring this kind of thing up now can you? it's a kind of awareness that is not quantified and does not reach the level of word until there is an emotional angry dressing down of the first man in five years.
the first man and the listener both have a good chance of ending up isolated, but for completely different reasons.
the first man will drive others away with his blind pontifications.
the second will eventually say, as thom yorke did, 'while you make pretty speeches, i'm being cut to shreds'. it is this sensitivity which may drive his seclusion.
I am the second man.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
things open up quite a bit if we are willing to suffer. yes, the debts must be paid, but in the final analysis, what reads the ledger? are our hands skillful enough- are our hearts warm enough- to make us capable stewards of all this capital?
with all this responsibility, do we gain access to grace?
"suffering is grace"- ram dass
but isn't grace delicate? aren't there limits to all this redemption?
"i got debts that no honest man can pay"- the boss.
"everything dies baby that's a fact. but maybe everything that dies someday comes back"- the boss.
an honest gambler knows his debts may kill him but still he senses a wider lens at work, at play.
similarly:
"if you feel like lost you'll end up found, so amigo lay them raises down" - townes.
or: the bottom line:
"meet me tonight in atlantic city"- the boss.
I wanna believe the gamblers come out on top. but (help us) there are facts to the contrary. there are, as the boss says, debts no honest man can pay. there are tragic youthful stumbles on knives by our brash brightest young, pants down, overdrawn and uninsured, out in the icy cold. St. John gets hungry too.
here's the rub: at some point the rising wave of bliss and falling suffering grasps its own tail and a (unholy?) circle is formed. this circle is called death (or enlightenment)-- the baton is passed to some nascent baby soul.
this baby, of course, is all of us. we must ask who among these children can pay the debts we have accrued?
to assume a negative answer to this question is to languish in safe conservatism, fearing the devil more than god.
alternatively, facing this kind of jagged cliff, these steep odds, sometimes a leaping feeling just swells up inside. the concept of decision doesn't really apply here.
maybe it's fitting that graceful is an adjective applied not to standing still but to diving. beautiful powerful arcing swan dives, bending toward justice.
"if physical death is the price that some must pay to free their children from a permanent psychological death, then nothing will be more redemptive." MLK
* ~ so amigos, lay them raises down ~ *
with all this responsibility, do we gain access to grace?
"suffering is grace"- ram dass
but isn't grace delicate? aren't there limits to all this redemption?
"i got debts that no honest man can pay"- the boss.
"everything dies baby that's a fact. but maybe everything that dies someday comes back"- the boss.
an honest gambler knows his debts may kill him but still he senses a wider lens at work, at play.
similarly:
"if you feel like lost you'll end up found, so amigo lay them raises down" - townes.
or: the bottom line:
"meet me tonight in atlantic city"- the boss.
I wanna believe the gamblers come out on top. but (help us) there are facts to the contrary. there are, as the boss says, debts no honest man can pay. there are tragic youthful stumbles on knives by our brash brightest young, pants down, overdrawn and uninsured, out in the icy cold. St. John gets hungry too.
here's the rub: at some point the rising wave of bliss and falling suffering grasps its own tail and a (unholy?) circle is formed. this circle is called death (or enlightenment)-- the baton is passed to some nascent baby soul.
this baby, of course, is all of us. we must ask who among these children can pay the debts we have accrued?
to assume a negative answer to this question is to languish in safe conservatism, fearing the devil more than god.
alternatively, facing this kind of jagged cliff, these steep odds, sometimes a leaping feeling just swells up inside. the concept of decision doesn't really apply here.
maybe it's fitting that graceful is an adjective applied not to standing still but to diving. beautiful powerful arcing swan dives, bending toward justice.
"if physical death is the price that some must pay to free their children from a permanent psychological death, then nothing will be more redemptive." MLK
* ~ so amigos, lay them raises down ~ *
Friday, February 13, 2009
shame song
we found an orbital portal. crossing over, we went into a dream, and awoke? on a breast near a nipple under a sun. we call it earth. on the outside chance of something breathing in the rubble, we ate of its silent and frosted nipple, and felt it swell with us. ashamed of our dependence, we basked in our dependence. children are often baskedly ashamed.
now i sit in a room somewhere. this is where summer and christmas holiday bring guilt with a snow cone or wreath when it is sure there are children starving. it is clear that no happiness can thrive. you see, there are children starving.
nonetheless, we strive. nonetheless, they starve. as macy's sparkles from the stardust of our willful neglect, gaudy and statuesque, blood on its jagged melodies, as around and round the whole parade twirls, with blood splatter. you can detect a glee from the audience.
it is all visceral, the moses tooth word. the openings are through sinew. the massive caves of riches are inside of tooth, of gut.
yes, in our teeth are still held the choice we made, hanging as we were in between, to become bashful inhabitants of shiny pale skin. we ate from the trough and were there adorned, by snake incantation. in this or any other year of our lord,
we eat of it. if we did not, we are figments. we ate of it.
tho made in the shadows of reflections, we ate of it. tho made before our decisions, we hungrily gobbled and in this taste was a covenant. yes we, of the purple drama, ate golden braids of it and we were consecrated in its songs.
of all the masquerades, let it be known that we, of the quickening, were there and covered our eyes when the girls and children were lain down to be made mothers and comrades, as it was written.
and we ache. calling for the song that sent us here, the object of a chant, the subject of a calling forth. and the band played on.
now i sit in a room somewhere. this is where summer and christmas holiday bring guilt with a snow cone or wreath when it is sure there are children starving. it is clear that no happiness can thrive. you see, there are children starving.
nonetheless, we strive. nonetheless, they starve. as macy's sparkles from the stardust of our willful neglect, gaudy and statuesque, blood on its jagged melodies, as around and round the whole parade twirls, with blood splatter. you can detect a glee from the audience.
it is all visceral, the moses tooth word. the openings are through sinew. the massive caves of riches are inside of tooth, of gut.
yes, in our teeth are still held the choice we made, hanging as we were in between, to become bashful inhabitants of shiny pale skin. we ate from the trough and were there adorned, by snake incantation. in this or any other year of our lord,
we eat of it. if we did not, we are figments. we ate of it.
tho made in the shadows of reflections, we ate of it. tho made before our decisions, we hungrily gobbled and in this taste was a covenant. yes we, of the purple drama, ate golden braids of it and we were consecrated in its songs.
of all the masquerades, let it be known that we, of the quickening, were there and covered our eyes when the girls and children were lain down to be made mothers and comrades, as it was written.
and we ache. calling for the song that sent us here, the object of a chant, the subject of a calling forth. and the band played on.
sin curves
i keep wondering about sin and redemption. i wonder about what courage is. is it taking the flames of the devil, offering hair and eyebrows and skin that my iron blood be refined and cast in his hot winds like a cliffside tree is shaped, molded, and strengthened by the storms it faces? is not the ugly and twisted and exposed cliffside tree somehow more majestic than a shady valley oak?
or is courage wisely surrendering this one battle of battles to jesus or another protector, another carrier of tablets, of etched stone ethic? maybe this is enough: simply walking this narrow stone path, still so mysterious, still so graded and difficult without the added hubris of trying to attack sleeping dragons at the same time.
and i look to my own sins for signs, for answers or better questions. i watch them fly back home ragged with hollow eyes, but eyes that have seen something. and i question them mercilessly but their secrets are unspeakable. they have been around some bend and lost a taste for testimony. but they are all I have-- another man's sins are not enough-- an echo of a voice is not that voice. and so i set to more plunder, more delicious rape, begging for virtue's song to fall from the unspoken silence.
or is courage wisely surrendering this one battle of battles to jesus or another protector, another carrier of tablets, of etched stone ethic? maybe this is enough: simply walking this narrow stone path, still so mysterious, still so graded and difficult without the added hubris of trying to attack sleeping dragons at the same time.
and i look to my own sins for signs, for answers or better questions. i watch them fly back home ragged with hollow eyes, but eyes that have seen something. and i question them mercilessly but their secrets are unspeakable. they have been around some bend and lost a taste for testimony. but they are all I have-- another man's sins are not enough-- an echo of a voice is not that voice. and so i set to more plunder, more delicious rape, begging for virtue's song to fall from the unspoken silence.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Return to Elders
Elders. What we need is a return to elders. The wise. Seers. These exist. These walk among us.
Not paperwork nor applications should choose our future leaders, but these. All is apparent. All is written on voice, on smile, on brow.
It is in these walking old souled humans upon whom we should hang our hopes, in whom we should rest. It is old vision, stripped of pretense and ambition, in which we should rest.
Experience, reverence, stead. On these. In these.
Not rule books. Not hoops. Not in tests even should we measure our students, our blushing prospects. No, give me Al Pacino, his blind and brash wisdom in Scent of a Woman... attesting to... that which cannot be seen but which is nonetheless seen by a man of fine age: character. Soul.
There are elders who know about soul. They can see it like another sees the color red. Give them back their divining sticks and circular discussions. Give us back our elders, singing and lighting the way, with gamble, with restraint.
Not paperwork nor applications should choose our future leaders, but these. All is apparent. All is written on voice, on smile, on brow.
It is in these walking old souled humans upon whom we should hang our hopes, in whom we should rest. It is old vision, stripped of pretense and ambition, in which we should rest.
Experience, reverence, stead. On these. In these.
Not rule books. Not hoops. Not in tests even should we measure our students, our blushing prospects. No, give me Al Pacino, his blind and brash wisdom in Scent of a Woman... attesting to... that which cannot be seen but which is nonetheless seen by a man of fine age: character. Soul.
There are elders who know about soul. They can see it like another sees the color red. Give them back their divining sticks and circular discussions. Give us back our elders, singing and lighting the way, with gamble, with restraint.
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