The Joke
Everything started out with the jokes.
Or with THE joke.
The one.
The joke to begin and/or end
all the other jokes in this world.
It all started out with that joke.
Until everything & all
had been turned into a joke,
and the joke—all by itself—
had become much too serious
for any other kind of joke.
(Within or without
this dusty old world.)
The past is a canvas
The oldest road (I ever know)
We were driving alongside that road.
Half-awake and half more asleep.
Never knowing which way we would go…
or what kind of place it would take.
We were driving alongside this ancient road.
Among so many traffic-light homes,
to ever really call it our own
(or even somebody elses).
Hypnagogic vistas and eyelids and homes.
Now—so much alike—and so alone (in our own eyes).
Just like the smallest stepping stone.
It all seems so much the same.
Right when you’re not really there.
Or when it’s not really here. All at once.
But… through each of these homes…
as their own secret temple, and chapel,
weaved out of hearts.
Lighting up, now, with so many candles and lights.
Bursting forth with everyone, people and life!
Bursting forth, almost like flames—
of their own secret time.
And their whispers of places.
We were driving alongside that oldest of roads,
looking for our own secret home.
Never knowing… that the road,
and the car… was our home.
Onto this ancient old earth.
Only here, in our hearts.
The Fable
There was a dice,
a many-sided dice,
and each side has a word.
A part of a tongue
that no one had heard.
And as it rolled
along the table,
each little fable and song,
would be chanted
“this tall” and “that long”.
Alongside this table
with so many faces and ages.
Each one living a part
of a story,
much much too large
to ever be held,
in any single one
of their hearts or hands.
So, as the fable
grew taller and taller,
this longer and wider and grander
deep into their hearts and their minds
and the parts of their lives,
they would all see, they would all come to know….
how each of their selves, played
one very small part
in a play,
much too mighty
to ever hold, or be contained,
in any single one
of their hearts or their kinds.
Freestylin arabesque
Arabesque mouthpiece,
(centri-fugal,)
diamond-pierced,
(centri-fugal,)
ornamental eyes
of a cranial head,
endlessly cracked.com (world wide) open
b/4 many king(doms) to come,
dressed in leather and scars,
and dreads wrapped in feathers,
punXish sista,
with a twista,
egyptian backbone
of too many a cultures,
twisting turning over,
until even evermore things yet to come.
Being away from the blog for awhile, has maybe even been a good thing (in the end), since it
also did give me a much-needed perspective and distance.
Now that I return, for (hopefylly) more regular posting and engagements, I find that things also feels quite a bit different. I look at things differently.
All the things that seemed like impossible challenges, now maybe doesn’t quite seem as heavy or menacing anymore.
And all the things that seemed so very small, that I somehow overlooked, and forgot how to value, or
even knew what to do with, now seems at least a little big bigger, and possibly also of a lot
more value and meaning.
Maybe my problem is that I expect blogging to be something more—or something ELSE–than what it actually IS. I expect blogging to be a magic bullet for connecting and engaging with other people. I expect blogging to be something that might very well be perfectly ALIEN to its very nature and media. I expect any message and stream, and any voice and any meaning, to go into that hole. That tinyest pinprick hole, that eye of the needle, that fleeting electronic space, weaved out of technological shapes, and yet also with breathing and bleeding, heart-and-soul, LIVING PEOPLE, that will forever stand at the gate, looking through, into just one tinyest part, of the whole. Only with whispers and guesses, and fleeting moments of maybe’s, ever-surely getting through.
Blogging sure isn’t a chat. (Tough Maybe we could turn it into a chat?)
Blogging isn’t a phone call either (neither to god, nor to man. Or… maybe it is, or could be?)
So what is (the nature of) blogging? Posting and linking, and comments.
Blogging is a text. Blogging is a private-public journal. Scribbled and foot-noted, at the very end, and by the margins, of the living people who are reading that text.
The text really DOES have value to me. I love all kinds of texts. If you read, and write texts, you know of their value.
And yet, adn yet, the people also have so much of a value. And the people can often get pushed away, and overshadowed, by the text.
What is needed then is human relations, interactions and connections. Conversations and engegemantes. Dialogues and trialogues and multi-logues.
Speech—and human responses—in addition to the text(s).
So, we might need both a phonecall, as well as a notebook and a pen. A text that is spoken—in spirit—and speech that is written, in web and in life.
In my other post (the one about selfsabotage), I blamed myself, for why all this blogging in some ways had failed, or at least not led to anywhere close to what I’d hoped and prayed. I blamed my own perfectionism and my own imperfections, and my own everything else, and thus merely confirming how I still think that it all is my own fault. I’M the one who is so unbelievably imperfect. I’m the one who can never get anything right. So I blamed everything on myself and all of my own, as I always does, yet again and again.
And so… maybe I’m right.
Or maybe it is all of our faults. The conspiration of human imperfections and flaws. Imperfections colliding and clashing. People not seeing eye to eye, and not really nearing each other. People (on the web) not truly understaning that there’s another flesh-and-heartbeats human being, at the other end. People, so seldom, and so late, ever barely understanding each other. Even just a tiny part of their and our lives.
Maybe people aren’t always all too compatible. Good, and well-intentioned, and yet… also highly different. Like they’re (we’re) from another time and space, or even from another unspeakable world.
Maybe we all have to make the serious effort. To understand, and to connect. To engage and to embrace. Each other. And also all the many others. The living and breathing. The others. The human being(s) at the other end (of the line, or the text, or the web).
I don’t yet know… what it is, or what is there.
But somehow we all have to make the attempt. At least if we want it to be/come more than a conversation… of and with… just (barely) one’s own little self.
Also everyone—or at least some little ones—or maybe just a one.
Or maybe many many many more.
But at least it would be really rather good if we all attempted to try.
Confirmation bias
Worrying about dying
will actually shorten your life.
By up to one 7th of a lifetime.
(It has even been scientifically
proven).
Being concerned with other
peoples judgements
will make you seem even worse
in those other peoples judgments.
(It has even been sociologically
proven).
So, I started this blog with the intention, or rather the experimental sensation, as a kind of test of where things could lead. Something to try. Perchance, a dream, or even something more than a dream. A pathway… ahead. Or the most broken and unstable stepping stone (by my feet). But it was never meant to be anything definite or permanent. At least not at first. This whole blog was just meant as a trial, or a test; something temporary, until hopefully in case something better came along.
So… why didn’t I see what I had actually (had and have got) going RIGHT HERE? However imperfect and work in-progress. It was still something that was getting somewhere, no matter how slow and gradual the journey, or that step, might seem and appear in the process.
Was it the perfectionst in me that started to rebel? My very own imperfect so messy blog? Things that are not up to my impossible standards? At least parly, I think so.
There was also the question—the SENSE—that I had got off on a wrong foot. Sooo and sooo many things that didn’t turn out the way I planned or hoped. So many piles of smaller mistakes, or at least what I considered mistakes (at the time).
But maybe, most of all, was the failure to connect with other people. Which might stem out of a low sense of worth (“I’m just not good enough for other people…”), as well as being very defensive/protective and insecure about things in some ways.
So I didn’t open up enough. I didn’t share and connect with other people on a more personal (or even a more… HUMAN) level. In the midst, and in the in-between, of all of us who are struggling&living right here.
So why did I stop blogging when I’d already gotten close to 100 followers in just 3 or 4 weeks? (and at least some exchanges with others.)
I just couldn’t take the pressure. At least that was part of the reason. All this attention—->all these eyes and senses… moving&creeping closer, and steering their minds towards old little *ME*.
So I abandoned ship. The only thing I seem to know well how to do (when things get out of hand, or when I just don’t know anymore just what to do). The thing I always seem to do: Sabotage so much for myself. Putting these (imaginary) brickwalls and obstacles, terrors and chains, in front of myself. Sabotaging…. my own LIFE. My own self. (And yet again. And again. And again. Why… is that so???)
So here I am. Considering all the options and choices of the future. If I should try to pick it all back up, all the little pieces. The shards and the things, I discard. Cause they’re… “just not enought perfect enough.” Cause maybe *I* am not perfect enough (or at least that’s what I think).
I thought that maybe I would start another blog sometime in the future (and this time I’ll get it right! This time… only this time… I’ll get it all right. From the start.) I thought that maybe I will just quit all of this blogging business. Maybe I will find something else. Maybe I should just go ahead abondon ship. BUT… What is there else but the waters around me? Don’t I need a raft… or some craft or foundation… or an island to stand up stady, or even a ship to sail about on the seas and the waters?
If I write something good, or at least somehing that get other peples attention, I become scared from all the attention. If I write something less good, or at least something that doesn’t get other people’s attention, I become afraid that I’ve ruined the blog, or that no other people will care about me or it anymore.
I become scared out of being alone. I become scared when gaining other peoples attention. A catch 22. A bouble bind horror, of psychological dread. The horrific paradox of old: you’re damned if you do, ,and you’re damned if you don’t. So why don’t I just DO? I’ll get damned—or at least I THINK I’ll get damned—no matter what I do.
Well, that’s the million-dollar question. Just what should I choose? And what would I lose, or even maybe gain? (If I don’t remaind here so stuck, in the same gloomy old place.)
So. I will think about re/turning and/or maybe keeping on blogging. I will consider almost everything and everything else.
And then, I’ll hopefully make some kind of choice. Maybe a wise one, or a increadibly stupid one, but at least I’ll try to do and get SOMETHING—even ANYTHING—done. With everything that I got, and with what I want.
What say you? What say I? This is a chance. This is a moment of life. maybe all of my life. Or at least some kind of path… that may lead somewhere else. (or.. yet again: grow ever-deeper into a forest or a garden, so ever-more blossomed, and so ever-more large. Like a moment of time, or even one whole life.)
Wolf in the flow
Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.
Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
skin,
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a’ things,
reatttttatched
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.
Lyrical Impressions 