I am interested in—
The poetry analysis, the poet as an analyst
The Indra work tells me—my life has been quite diverse and varied, here, there, and everywhere—it’s a little dizzying to think that this was all one person and one person’s life. It is shocking.
I could write some Kerouac-like bluesy pieces, they would be about the past they would be about woman the wife the mother at home they would be the Al-Anon version of the blues, something tells me it would be awfully hard to write these blues honestly
Thoughts—no use thinking thoughts
Listening to the space between the thoughts
times of meditation in the sad café
9 of swords (rev)
I am not raising kids anymore.
I can use Linda’s logistical skills and networking to make things easier.
When I feel in the grip of clutching fear or annoyance at work—I can take a walk. Take a breath.
I want to
I want to
I want to
I want to
I want
Demons into Allies—
| money | -> | beauty -> | clothes home |
| -> | sharing -> | Blair, Kiva? | |
| -> | saving -> | 401K, pay off debts |
| impatience resentment |
-> | my koan. My obvious opportunity to yearn for liberation |
Buddhism really figures in here.
| my passivity at work |
-> | don’t get involved in tempests, gossip. Step up to motivation. Spend time with the winners. |
| two days a week at home |
-> | Discipline. Housework? Chores calling me? Exercise? Errands? I don’t think I can work 8 hours at home. Maybe that’s not the point. |
| Creative time | -> | most rewarding projects have been in fragments. |
Sam deserts me often in the evening, sleeping. I can do a lot with a short period of time every day. The daily effort is my ally. I fritter away time on Tues and Thurs, flounder.
I know I’m going to do this.
I am afraid.
Discs—Physical Earth energy
Grounded. Material needs. My body. Not being able to take care of myself. Not being able to defend myself from the demands of a project.
Priestess of discs—She’s doing Yoga! Can I still take my Tuesday morning yoga class? I would dearly love to be able to do that. Physical—trainer setup? What about a zafu/zabuton in this room?
Working can be bad for my health, bad for my mood. I don’t want to reach out, make connections. I don’t want to feel over my head again in an extroverted analytical culture.
Six of discs—reversed. Is about this. I don’t want to participate in the madness. I try experimental remarks with Linda, jumping outside the box of her behavior. When I think about healing/leadership, I think—BIG. I want to modify the whole extended team so that we can work well together. My intuition screams at me to modify other’s behavior in situations. I can’t. I avoid participation to a great degree because of this trap.
Son of discs—Goals. One of my fondest dreams is to improve the house. I would love to gradually transform this space into something that would feel good and livable. I don’t dare to wish for what. Seems materialistic. There are poor out there. I am no good at home decorating. Etc. First step—money. Could I feel good about this? I don’t know. I might feel like Michelle or Richie. I might be susceptible to Sam’s criticisms, bound/engaged with his actions or lack of action. I don’t want that.
Uneasy, writing in bed on Tuesday.
First, take some conscious breaths. Expel on the exhalation. Expel the instructions. Intentions.
A monument of agendas inside.
Try to arrive. Get here.
Wanted to write my Godamifesto.
Discovering Anne Waldman, turning pages of her Vow with my long haggy-fingered hands and damaged wrist.
Not much can I do. Limited.
Au revoir.
I could have a nervous breakdown at work, I could start sobbing, sobbing with frustration at the restrictions placed on me there. “Structural violence.” Yet I accept it, this solution to my insecurity.
Well, this is different. A nonsense counterpoint to every conversation. Beings of irrationality floating in the corners shitting with their pens.
Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?
Gary.
What is he reading to the birthday girl?
Something I know: corduroy shirts
Something I’ve forgotten: spring
A resistance toward old directions. A resistance. And a restraining order.
Distribution of Jeannie’s, ratio of under-Jeannie’s, an elaboration of Jeannie’s.
We will leave when the kid comes
I am unable
Less salt and less murder.
Scribbling. Doodling. The equivalent.
What’s good here?
Everyone in this room is alive. There are no dead in this room. The dead don’t travel among us. The dead don’t have a Rewards Card.
Books are a shame these days.
Ready to adopt my own arm, a child with a disfigurement.
Stay away stay away the one that totally withdrew, the one that wouldn’t take no for an answer, this is not an unusual situation, this is not a catch-up, this is not catching up, this is not a spirit, this is not a des-spirit.
Desk.
Another strong-minded woman. Another sort of reparation. Another cane or a cast.
Harder knocks than most, an -ing rhyme, a woman personalized, a custom preference, a song stuck on a balcony, yes you have a little virus.
Optimistic with Buddhism.
The practice.
Failed head. Fuck.
Shopping for Christmas cards.
Shopping for Buddhist cards.
I have to write about Crystal Bowles. There’s only one joke there, which is her name.
Dedicated to kids.
A lot of great teachers have passed through my life unnoticed.
There is an ancient print shop on a hotel property that may have to be demolished.
Digital scrapbook. Everything is new. I am sighing with innovation. I am fried.
I am—disgusted.
I am exhausted. Easier to maintain simplicity.
Sustainability. Burn.
I am lost. Swimming.
The text.
The reserves have lost all their tigers. A tiger reserve outside New Delhi with no tigers to show for it. A man willing to shoot to kill. My nephew going into the Navy.
The penguin is in poor condition.
What about New York December 2—if I am in good condition?
Animals. Lisa has an enamour of animals.
Very smart, very sensible. The horse is an animal.
I have a feeble-fatality.
3 countries in 3 days. Brussels, Holland, Germany.
I miss Blair.
What about another planet, another world like the Little Prince’s? Obviously, it can be simple, a planet populated by nothing more than a plant.
The coffee is a bit appalling, as is Sam’s insatiable desire for a phone.
I have another appointment in
ONE
WEEK
Resting, resting, arresting.
If you can load garbage into trucks, is your injury so bad?
To elevate with such care, anything anything anything that’s happening.
My hosts, my hosts, my experience of hospitality.
The failure of my lights. The utter failure of my many lamps. They wink out one by one.
The eyes of disaster.
Yet not so bad.
I read it again and again and I still have no idea what he’s talking about. Just seems sad to me, but is that my idea or his?
I love my in-laws. I felt so sad that I won’t see them this weekend.
Nearly wild with my refusal to accept
something I’m not even sure of.
The surface is uneven. The cutting board is warped. The gentleman was proud to show me the use of passive voice in my writing sample. Fucking shit. Well live and learn. I am still expecting to show them, every one of them, show them—what?
I am lingering.
What are these women up to? And then these men, their heads white and bony, their chins with flaps like lizards, that they have to shave.
I have a fear of not being able to keep myself clean when I’m old, old and too proud to be seen.
I hiked into St. Lucia. I have done some hiking. I was scared on Mount Baker. Scared by Ken, I suppose, essentially. I’ve been scared on the lake. Many times. But I won’t quit.
Faith. Faith. A lot of it.
I have been here before.
I am pleased by the dust and the cowboys. I am pleased by the conservatives. What makes a match? I agreed to step up to the plate.
I hear the train. I hear the surface water sound that invades this house. This is a house of strangers. I am intrigued by watercolors. I am happier here if I pretend I live in California OR Oregon. Yes, hey ho, I live in Oregon.
What is a good student?
Do I want to be a poetry student?
Coffee tends to cool it, to thin it out, bring edges into crisper relief. I think I understand.
I remember starting out.
The memory becomes a big junky storage bin.
Jumpy. Jumpy. Leaf blowers until I can’t hear myself think. Renegotiating everything. What about a month of fragments? What about a month of Sundays? What about doing some hard laundry? What about turn off the critical frame of mind?
Not necessary.
My shoulders have regressed since the injury. They are back up around my ears. I am waiting for a beating, another blow to fall.
I am waiting for the pain. I like to devalue, much more than most. I do not like children. I am an ana-pest.
I used to write.
I don’t write anymore.
In the call and response, I am leaning toward prose. I think it would be a joke.
Now Gertrude Stein was she more focused? Did she probe her inner parts?
Absence of relaxation today—what? pressure? the house is a pressure.
Pressure—pleasure—pressure—pleasure—someone has to have the answers
why does it seem like my goal is to stump them?
I want to post something online I am taken with the practice of blogging I am taken in a different direction It has been hard to learn Yes it is my focus that is needed Telescoping eyes Zoom out zoom in sometimes
you just don’t feel like talking
well silly me I am just trying to explore there is no tyranny here which is hard to get used to—dear Anarchist there is no tyranny here
When the boughs breaks—practicing writing in traditional meter like Longfellow—trace of tobacco in the air—would like to regress, remembering Indian days—would like to expel have my nails done
Still sad. Sadder than ever today. I want to throw myself on your mercy. To wander into your crowd full of people I don’t know. I set up a conflict with people around me. I don’t stake my claim.
I don’t taste my own sauce. I guess I’ll leave here now.
I want to hug my faith, to cultivate it. Of course, that involves nothing.
Still pain, still swollen, still quite ill at ease.
Lots of things.
I could get caught up.
Over the ridge, a view.
A view, a view, a view of the electorate.
The array of beautiful concepts, the fine array of lovely concepts, like false teeth, all pearly and defined.
I would like to wash my face. I would like to wash my hands.
I haven’t washed my left hand in almost a week.
I am attracted to behaviors by which we might move off the grid. Out of the mainstream. These are the behaviors I have to hide at work. Sam tried to rig up a stand for my swollen arm that I could wear, out of a piece of copper tubing. It didn’t work.
I sense there are too many people in the world with too many attachments. There isn’t room. There is no more room. I am squatting here.
Everyone is on a trajectory of some kind though. Achievement-life: I can smell it coming a mile away.
I like to look at things. I really enjoy drives or train rides, even plane rides, because we can look at things, an unrolling scroll of new things passing before our eyes. Also—walking.
I like to put myself in a place where a metaphor might make itself known to me.
I thought about my lack of focus. An attachment disorder. To exhibit no passion, not to be drawn to anything with that lovely intensity.
I have been collecting thoughts on writing. Unfortunately, I haven’t been writing them down. Here they are from the vagueness of memory:
I invented a common noun—no, it’s a collective noun—for poets: a “discovery” of poets. I’m waiting for an opportunity to use it.
The beginnings are slow and primordial.
I am waiting for breakfast to be ready. I’m not the one doing the grocery shopping and now I’m not the one doing the cooking. It’s quite a change.
Resistance to going to make political phone calls. Even if they work, I don’t want to do it.
Appropriately, raining. Wet leaves scattered everywhere. Sad place in my solar plexus, deep hole of mourning. Or rather, not so deep, shallow and sheltered. Impressionable as a child.
I’m writing because it allows me to coop myself up in a safe place. Do I feel threatened All-the-Time? Do I think if I weaken myself, I’ll go undetected, and not draw the attention of predators? I don’t know.
I will sit for a half hour this afternoon.
In silence.
Something clicked against the window. Again. Don’t know what it was.
I can’t make tea. Broken wrist, can’t manipulate the tea kettle. No clean saucepan available. I won’t toss out the white gravelly cauliflower soup.
I am wondering about this work. I was driven to this writing by my absolute incapacity to live comfortably in my home, in my relationship, in my own damaged skin. If I am writing, I am not falling down.
Do eccentrics have this sadness? Do hermits? Do religious believers? I would like to know. But there are things I can’t change about myself, things I have to accept.
One of those is tears springing to my eyes. I am a frequent cryer at any little adversity.
It’s familiar to shame I felt as a child. It’s a familiar syndrome.
I have the anger about the network router. Something is working—why change it? I live with a curious technology monkey.
Writing in ruts.
I would like to decipher this sadness.
Does it relate to the personality? The philosophical outlook? the biochemistry? the inability to get on the network?
The quiet room, the late afternoon.
Dogs barking in the neighborhood. The house phone rings; not a good idea to answer it, it’s either a political call or a fund-raising call. Or both. Or a wrong number.
I have nothing else to do but put some effort into this. I am one-handed in the house. I can’t sleep. I have trouble with the network. My mind races regarding home repairs. I start to target my relationship and I want to tear things to pieces.
There’s fantasy. I wish I could access fantasy. I mean real fantasy, not just the odd fantastic incidents of my past—drug addiction, murder, alienation of the corporate world, near-fatal blood disorders.
I want to stay relaxed.
I’m nervous about Sam coming upstairs. If he saw me writing, I would say “I’m writing.” I don’t want him to know what I’m doing.
TV noise at night bothers me. I feel very lonely. I remember Eli watching movies drunk in the middle of the night. What am I to do. Sam is asleep on the couch. The soundtrack of “Fast, Cheap and Out of Control” is pleasant. I can try to listen to it.
I could try to embrace this space. I could give it a try.
I’m wishing for my own soundtrack. I don’t think I have ever really lived my life. Just stepped through it. Looking backwards, while walking forwards. That’s how I broke my wrist. It was windy at the time.
The train goes by. It’s lovely to ride the train at this time of day. Very quiet passengers, almost empty trains. We took a train from Amsterdam’s train station back to the airport at this time. Working people with staid composure. Kids in dark baggy clothing.