When it's over, I want to
say: all my life
I was a bride married to
I was the bridegroom,
taking the world into my
—Mary Oliver, "When Death Comes"
Instructions for living a life:
Tell about it.
–Mary Oliver, “Sometimes”
Carefully discern the cost and the calling.
Then, commit for life, if you are able.
If you can't be X all day, much less for life,
try being X for the next second, minute, or hour.
Failure will never stand in your way,
unless you fail to learn, the true failure.
What you say and do, it matters.
How you survive, it matters.
You don't have to screw people
to live, as long as living is enough.
Make the effort, focus, watch your mind.
For your mind, your ideas about the world
are like trying to capture being alive
with a camera, a microphone, or a word.
It makes objects of moments. Moments
are life, succulent and raw, a ripe fruit
better tasted and felt than captured and told.
Reach for grace, weave it through your life
and the lives of others, in community. Together,
we can build a life of shared experience,
of deep connection and intimacy. Beauty
is everywhere, we only need to strive to see
through our own senses and those of others
to dip into the richness of our lived experience.
Knowing, ain't doing, my friends. I know enough,
to write this, but I also know that I am too frequently
sucking on the stone pit, the abstraction better
thrown away that prevents us from eating good fruit.
And all fruit is best, when it is shared with love.
Start with a basic principle: yauh peng, yauh leng - in English, inexpensive and beautiful. Empty, alone, a blank canvas five inches across, bounded by ears, separate yet susceptible, social mind virus. Catastrophe has already happened, from one view. Another angle, sees happiness, created whole-cloth out of disposition and a clean heart. Sense, nonsense and in between, a line can't be right, left and/or wrong. Layers, subcultures of lost, brittle men coalesce into reply guys, wienie wagers, and boojeymean lodged in the Callipygian cheeks of society, coprolite, surplus to requirements, in places normalized for deficits of wonder. Covering what stinks, habitual evidence of a lunch, long past Nature's Shitness Protection Program revealing God in what she's not, and what she is may be just another evaporated, dehydrated, Stone being. An unmagicked, McJunk world, three ring shit show, exponential, terrible, uncapable of bearing the intimacy of scrutiny. Changez vos amis, but there can be no separate survival or adjusted destinies. Truth comes last.
Not all are masterpieces, but there are some gems here.
Out in the cow field of life, there's lot of poop to be found. Some is fresh. Some is wet. Some is old. Some is round. Even if you catalog them all, and describe every detail. The main thing is knowing, how not to step in one.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.—Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art.” Poetry Foundation. 1979.
living in the doom, catastrophe paranoia of the psychoentirety, a trash fire, landscape lighting florescent, sick room architectures broadcasting dead news to unwitting recipients, dream/nightmare remnants, black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting, reagents and catalysts, parlor epidemiologists and physicians, a confederacy of a billion clowns, narcissists, fascists and a mule turning paranoia into public policy mystics of the stream, waterflesh bubbling personal microculture, the best swims between the net, fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts his smooth skinned erection towards the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired, on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex, against a loser's catalog: black jerseys, bum guns, and jack boots - stomping an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin, grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations
“Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of them.”-Ron Padgett, “How to be Perfect.” Poetry Foundation. 2013.
A collection of life lessons, most are good.