At least there will be no babies, then there was.
At least there will be no episodes, then there was.
At least there will be no heart attacks, and then there was.
At least there will be no ripple effects, and then there was.
At least there will be no conversations.
At least there will be no love, or no love lost.
Yes, no love will be lost and none to find in heaven’s first place,
seat at heaven’s gate,
dessert on trays and
inaccessible.
Tag Archives: aversion
I complain.
Some things that I am learning.
Want to run and hide away.
Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon.
Find that wishing-wanting. Find that rooster Greed a’crowing.
Find aversion, Blair at High School Graduation in a thunderstorm,
dressed like hell, and making his first adult deposit into an account.
Amorous appellant.
Rebellious repellent.
I would like to. I would not like to.
Averse to morning happenings and hoverings
I have a hard time
it’s a means of self expression
Feeling oversized, overwrought, overcome. Feeling feet in shoes. Feeling a non-yogic sluggishness, untoned qualities creeping in and the mind is coalescing.
I am expecting. She is expecting in a voice so juicy with disgust or secrets I hated the way the syllable “pect” came out of the mouth oozing with gossipy fruit juice The word is ruined forever as is duds as is a lot of words like revery. Need the poets to reteach me.
may 26, 2007
This is for me. I am you. I know you. Inherit you, absorb you, bless you, blow you, notice you, bill you, make you, shake you, take you. Take two, textures. Take two, territories. Take two, talk to, talk to you, yes I am having a nightmare I am having a disability.
And this morning—wrapped in the cleanest sheets of calm.
And still worms tackling.
Silences. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. Blossoming of lies like bindweed. This one doesn’t trust hate like a fool.
I will work with Inna. She is from the Ukraine and she has definite opinions. Sigh—I am—sigh—repulsed.
Morning waves of aversion rise like nausea where am I, what am I doing.
Particles, particulate. I sound funny at work. Disturbing. At all disturbing.
I wish this could be warmer. Or more expressive somehow. I wish I wasn’t tempted by shit, and tales, and mentally ill. I wish I wasn’t haunted. And am I haunted after all? I feel like yes. I feel some burdens, but you know what—it’s no longer all that interesting.
I’m interested in the magical indigenous under the sound of rain.
I am unwilling at this point.
Unwilling on campus. Irrational fears. There is no healing balm for everything. So just get used to it. The most unpleasant thing of all is—heart dropping from fear. If I could avoid that automatic heart-drop from now on, I would. Do egrets have it? Flamingos, herons, other long birds? Birds with hearts that beat so fast and so unknown. Birds with eyelashes and bird dogs, slim.
april 15, 2007
A day of steel-blue rain. A day of falling steel in pellets, grinding up your street, your car, your sight. Falling off the doors and windows, falling under gutters and sewers, falling through your clothes and eyeglasses. Broken umbrellas hum with guilt. Aversion drives us down the street to Kinko’s where I run copies of my tax forms. Out in the steel light of spring. Out to the mailbox, out the splashy windows, down the street. Pain scrawling in my head and neck and shoulders, an accompaniment of cello.
Nothing left to say to you. This is how it feels—a ragged stomach-hole. Some kind of pressure. Some bit of proud that he’s so uncommon. Some bit of fear. Some bit of panic, that I just want all of this to go away and that (my friend), detachment. Hard-hearted. Fuck. Jesus Fuck.
Fast talkers. At work, an impulse, so intense, to slow down all conversations. Slow slow slow slow down. Make you repeat each word in line so the thoughts can be absorbed. So what is this phenomenon, this riffing disrespect? Does it hide ignorance or escalate frustration? Where is the mountain, where are the waters?
Egg looking for the riverbank. Eggplant seeking streamside.
Turn up the heat on all of your endeavours. Try to rest, relax. Do scar massage. How painful waking up, how painful email. How to do it. Not sure movies or a sleeping mate is something skillful. Sad. There is chocolate and dried fruit. It might be wisest at this point to clean.
Tracing. Battles, bombs, blood. And how we carry on.
In the household—there is nothing happening. The garden cleared of sticks and stalks, but not turned over, soft and warm under a thin layer of rotten hay. Earthworms fat, inert with cold. Occasional grub, dug up, in half moon pose, not something I really want to lean in and observe.
Abhor might be too strong a word to use.
Something ready to panic about Monday. Someone wondering if she should ditch this project, jump ship, don’t come back. Well hell.
This wouldn’t be the first time.
I could easily have been married to __ or __ at this point—Jesus fucking God forbid—I could be a tourist down in Costa Rica tormenting monkeys, dropping trash, failing once again to speak the language.
I am accepting that it’s just okay to Not Fit In.
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.
march 14, 2007
Unashamed evaluation. Here in Starbucks, tears behind my eyes unreasonable. Feel pressure to make phone calls—Kristin, Lorna, Margaret, and I don’t want to do it. Feel the competition of Stamford, everyone is out. Feel a freaky drama starting in the house, so tied down, so unhappy, so oppressed, so much by what who knows the lack of private time, the restriction on my inner life my meditation my suffering over inability to recharge? Yes, I am an aging Ipod mini battery so
Thirsty and so suffering—it’s been coming up for hours, weeks, and months—I put it down (PUT IT DOWN) you see and there it is again this vagueness this unease the only solution that I want
Luckily no tears—K stopped by to say hi—my friend—oh well.
You big dog, you dirty dog. Birthday card for Kristin. I want to
A resistance toward old directions. A resistance. And a restraining order.
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.
Phenomenology of poetry.
Aversion of poetry
Resting through aversion
Resting with oily skin
Elderly talking
Loving their children
Failed head. Fuck.
I am—disgusted.
The coffee is a bit appalling, as is Sam’s insatiable desire for a phone.
What a mess.
I find it all a hateful mess.
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.
I am resistant in so many ways.
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.