Category Archives: practice

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in Al-Anon I hear a lot of hatred, greed, delusion

for me it was a help to label that

for me it was a help to lose belief in “me” as a stable concept

there goes self acceptance, ego, ambition

getting better, doing more, perfectionism, anything like that—

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It is nice to jettison almost all these things. Full garbage cans and full recycling. Being present, remembering myself and my stomach full of gel and wanting to be somewhere else not here not in the parking lot.

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Desire composes. Composing, composing. Greed, hatred, and delusion. Putting away desire and grief for the world. Burdens. Putting away the burdens. Freedom is tranquility but composing is not. Composing is agitation, discharge of mental electricity. Composing, composing. She is a random fragment.

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Happiness. Counting the days, the lines the minutes and the hours. Yes, yes I can see the Buddha in your mind is angry. The smells. You can’t deny requirements for meditation, you can’t deny the leftovers, the bowls, the cups, the glasses, the hard litter of the kitchen. You can’t deny your stomachache, you silly westerner, when are you leaving? yesterday? Someone made a study of her punctuation. And so long arriverderci after all amen.

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the desire for—the freedom from delusion. Investigating the nature of delusion from my chair—this is a joy—this is a path—this is a step—this is a way—this is my ignorance—this is the light—this is my death—this is my bag of skin—this is my suffering—this is you—you are impermanent—your attributes give rise to my reactions—there is flux—curtains of loose petals streaming past the window—sun—it’s warm—the lawn—it’s green—it’s trimmed—my neck it aches, how much money in the US goes to lawn care—how many ticks are out there, how many coins, how many undiscovered facts and how much data, how many cells, how many newborn leaves, how many petals and how many sprouts, how many hours digging and how many butterflies are born, how often have you watched a turtle in the last few days—and do you barbecue upon a tiny grill—what are the unique facts of your life if any and how can they endear you to me—how does one “pray” for others—what is the difference between compassionate and sunlight—how can we be brighter and more tender—how can we be burnished and more brave—cherished and with capacity to cherish—all our cherished landscapes in a row—and then—we’re breathing into emptiness—and then—another sprout

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Modulation—magic breathing worked for me last week—breathed through your remarks—the smarting,
the shrinking of my skin—and now, we have the body
and a yoga practice—

how much happiness (smile) is already here
my body might as well be hung with jewels

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brief thoughts of sex—need for writing about sex—some struggle in the bedroom and some insight—my mother unable to find comfort unable to take refuge—what is my refuge? yes the moment’s smell and that sensation walking on this trail this step-by-step, yes, your shoulder and pow—the odors of your hair sensation pressing mouth into your shoulder upper arm, sensation from other parts of body sensation pleasure from the use of muscles in my limbs with a calibrated abandon—leading okay—leading out of mind—it is a kind of practice—the flexibility to change your frame of reference—to let the body lead (no breath awareness) but—this is something I have learned

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A soft, soft inversion, a simple comfortable balanced inversion. Spent no time at table. Practice scooping, scooping into singing veins, the hard attack. The tremolo. The tremulo. My dad, his hand under the baby’s chin, familiar escapade.

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april 29, 2007

limited expression limited by cloudiness and long fatigue. Unjustified by Sunday’s simple misery. So long, let go,
long song, still flow. Say so, how know, myrrh go, far low. Fairly groveling on the mat, not willing to hold still. The atmosphere changes, the mind follows. The feelings follow, and the feeling tones, a flock of sheep with perfect teeth.
I see your teeth, I see your sheep, your shape, your perfect hair. How adulterous, how adulary, how omniferous. Iron shapes the seedlings, tender iron flowing in their veins, their tremulous simple veins. Hard to know, hard attack,
mé l’art.

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I want to be enlightened. I want to be enlightened. My aspirations are tender, have a tendency to wither in this sandy soil, drown in this rain. I want I won’t, I want I won’t. My tendencies plum blossoms, Blossom like the plum. Year of no blossoms. Blair ate plums and broccoli, his first nutritious meal in a long time.

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Dirty wall in the ladies’ bathroom near the light switch. Childrens’ hands. Wondering if I should call my brother. Wondering too long is never good. Stomachache. The regular diary. The jotting. The tendency. Dependent origination. The chain. The wrangling. The striving and the letting go. The seeking a rhythm. Child’s voice behind me. Heater ticking. Draft consistent. Periodically there is a sound of wind.

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Entertaining writing requirements, forcing myself to sit down and put something on paper, I understand that urge to just fling up your hands and refuse to create, refuse to push a small pocket open in the fabric of unknowns. Quicker the better. Numbered paragraphs. Goose honking seems to be upset. And yes, I have a headache. The ache of loneliness and isolation—but is it really desire, the desire for recognition? here we go again. Maybe that goose is honking-honking for her mate.

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Chikeola sits there African and deep black and inhumanly strong and flexible. She touches my back, my hands, my feet, guides my elbows into microbends. Thoughts cross my mind—I’m 50, no I’m 51—and this is pretty good, right? Well no, she wouldn’t buy that, would she.

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march 28, 2007

Here I am 5 pm—New Canaan coffee at Zumbach’s. Excellent. Civilized day—work at home, yoga, and quit at 4:30. Intense yoga one-on-one with Chikeola.

So foreign I can only follow
challenge to my understanding
wall, a see-through wall—a screen
No comparisons are possible
Learn to use my body in completely different ways
Part of me will not go back
Pussy willow (weeping) in fuzzy yellow bloom, this is a first—
Struggling with documents
The shop is closed

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Any occasion to be critical—judgment as an outline, barrier, a boundary, a border. Feelers—putting them out—feelers—putting them out—for something special, something so impulsive with intelligence or generosity, that HEY, I leap in that direction.

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2nd Prose Poem conference
Something I’m not writing anymore

the disintegration of
the diary

on purpose
the relaxed alignment
of destructive tendencies

and all those names
those names for things
far-reaching Adams
wrestle in the garden
double Adams
double Garden
and there is no Eve
on daylight savings time

something made of ill repute
that catches up with you

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Dear Alex,
I am getting very interested in meditation.
Although I am shy.
I want a Zen teacher. Buddhist teacher.
I want to speak freely. I mean really.
I hope I can live with some humility.
I hope I can exhibit. Color.
I hope to make frail notes at my mother’s bedside.
Step 9 says: whenever possible.
I think that is funny
This smart-aleck
always ready to move on
The dharma makes it hard
to say anything you see
I am getting
Back
on
Track

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march 11, 2007

Genres of note. Choking out syllables of gemshit. Murderous eyes on the sly. Poetry magazine induces epilepsy. I am relaxing into awful afterday of Security BRD—how unpleasant is your name Alleluia who is Shakespeare after all and what did he enable
Hark hearken harken herald
The back door of relief
the deck of equanimity
the roof of aloof
the sink of basin
the rug of rolling over
the kitchen of wishes
do not underestimate the pluses of poverty—I am seeking poverty, so wretched without you and what can I do about it—
yoginis in spiffy outfits
yoginis in stretch suits
yoginis dancing in rags
pale as rags pale as dust
Gayatri

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No I am not under stress, not menopause or lupus, not gall bladder or any other pain—

I am livid with the unsatisfactoriness of it all. I wish

I have desires—well I would like to find out—before I die—
if liberation is really possible and in order to do that it appears that I have no choice except to sit and sit and sit and you see, I really don’t have time to sit especially because I can’t negotiate that with my boyfriend and I find it very embarrassing to be “sitting” in the house when someone wants me and before the house is clean and meals and water and the computer/sewing machines—
but—

why shouldn’t I SIT and
here is the alternative

forget about any liberation
until the next life and
there is no next life
and

I don’t believe in God either so I can’t pray for the resolve to make my “growth” possible.

I really don’t care to know about any purpose or meaning to life I believe in nothing I can point to that is self (right now I sit here writing what is that)

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This is not worthwhile, is it?

Meanwhile, it’s always someone’s birthday, I would like to race away so far and demand a year in cloister only one outfit, one bowl, one word—sometimes the complexity of extroversion slays me—this is a tired story, isn’t it? Am I busy self-making? Did I have a moment when the rug was pulled out from under someone who I thought was so familiar? Ski jacket, ski jacket, ski jacket, sunglasses—how it is in here. I am not in Sunnyside. And Poetry is Impossible to Learn. (So I Say so I say so say so say) Oh say so, so you say.

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Why struggle with this at all? I am insecure with anything that requires any level of resolve.

I can work a Program, show up, practice feebly on and off—I can read and write and work on software engineering. Fitness is not part of my routine. I’d let Sam work on his truck, the house, the computer, I’d let anyone do anything. There is very little I can figure out.

Holding Separate—here is where we are reckless holding ourself Separate—because there is a lack of dharma friends.

K—Starbucks and her husband—Burger King.

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Visualize. Visualizing. Visualizing Kilimanjaro. Visualizing the bright shreds of sun carved off Vivasat. Visualizing nails in the floor. I took a washcloth, wiped the dirt fingerprints off the bedroom door. I arrested qarrtsiluni. Exacerbated. You can tell there is no channel carving here. You can tell the bird is disturbed and fluttering on the nest. Puffed up down against the cold. Chilly nest, someone might have to fly again. Taking care, how dare, not fair. She puzzles, then allows. A dream of behaving differently. Nice things for others, not to get found out.

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50 x 365—unique work. I don’t know. I’m exhausted by it. I want it to be over. It is a huge meditation on interpersonal relations. I tried to exercise lovingkindness—could not succeed at times. I don’t know how much to reveal. I’d like to WOW people with it. That’s not such great motivation. I’d like to let people know they have touched my life. I’d like to open the door to an intimacy—but this is not very mutual. I grabbed all the power and authority by writing these things.

I found a source of motivation. I was not going to let D see me stop. Ha.

It’s not that big a thing really.

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I am interested in—

  • online poetries
  • blog as poem
  • applied poetry, particularly in the office
  • poet as one confronted with the unknowable, unspeakable meanings
  • primitive rhythms
  • experiments with art
  • how to make digital art look non-digital
  • splotches of watercolor (ink on top)
  • daily practice
  • gardening/writing intersection
  • spirituality/writing intersection
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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.

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december 13

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.

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december 5 1:45 pm

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.

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If I could find my way to a simpler conception. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock. No table salt. No laughing pepper. No funny farm. No moldy vegetables. Rot in a garden. Where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current. Where do we see that? Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks far away at night and there you are, another person. We forget that all of these poets are also persons, one after the other, exhibiting bodily functions. Yes you are a wizard of language. Yes you may set a bonfire. Yes you can turn and turn and turn. No you are not a clergy person. No none of this should be bandied about. No you are not for sale. No you have no memory of the mountain of marzipan you saw in Italy.

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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?

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Part of me is just super fucking suspicious about this goddawful meaningless poetry. I can’t write anything like that! I think about the hermits pushing against the bounds of possible experience.
I think of the poets pushing, pushing out of bounds the wheelbarrows full of language. Clods, clots, clothoppers. Hamemers.

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I am going to pull out “The Instruction Manual”—”as I sit looking out of a window of the building.” I want to write “The Questionnaire.” All of these ideas are depressing and messy, like litter. Like leaves. The dead brown leaves, everywhere, curled, curled. Every year, done, down, down.

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Investing. She is investing time. She struggles to define the terms and conditions. The terms of daylight and nightlight. The conditions of breakfast, tea, noise, and satisfaction. She is not sufficiently passionate. Her passion is weak (again). I can learn from the past. I can make a move out of passion. I can dedicate.
I will dedicate my room to the poetries, my living museum of cloth and pixels. The pixels are little squares in the fabric. Her technique is appalling. Going back through the catch—fishes, shells, seaweed, and garbage. Fishes fish, dishes or dish. Hollywood Hollywood Hollywood (dactylic) Perilous Perilous (dactylic) In my room (anapestic). I could go through some poems, mark them. I could observe them in their carriages.

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The positions, the choreography of your gestures does not relate to the metrical feet, and though it should. There are metrical feet hiding in the prose, wearing veils. There are hard hearts, hard- hearted orb that rules the night. I am lost. Contemporary. The past. You can ask, you can ask to attach, you can task to attach your trash. There is nothing else to say.

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Yes this was me. I am suspicious of me, what is it. Today spent time in completely anonymous pursuits that will never offer any recognition. I’m suspicious of my name. It doesn’t feel appropriate for fame. I wrestle expectations down and down and down again. Meanwhile, why not call it home? No this is not me. Me so what. I like the universal flux instead, brightened and tightened in a node that is my skin, my wrist. My stinging teeth, my statically electric hair. My shapeless brows.