you wanna share something make your life richer, you feel like the wealthiest one alive, really, and you wanna share it with someone who love you, they say they love you, they don’t need to say they love you because they raised you, they gave birth to you, you would not have arisen from the dust without them, no, and now you grown and you wanna tell them what makes your heart beat, and you hope they will listen, and you finally get the courage to write it out in a letter and you send it, and it’s okay, it’s okay you say to yourself, knowing full well it’s like playing the lottery, you ain’t never gonna know exactly how it’s coming back, could be venom, could be spit, could be vitriol, or something kinder, and this time, this time it happens to come back softer or kinder than before, maybe, and definitely better than silence, pure dead silence, so you are grateful for that at least, and no, they will not abide by your request, no way, but they want you to know they may be happy if you happy, yes, everyone deserves to be happy. you call them the next day just to say hi. there won’t be any rehashing what was written. you want them to know it’s okay. so you cannot agree. so what.
projection of poor memory
You taught me how to survive. I taught you how to thrive. The tables before were turned, and I experienced a deep despair like the world no longer could care…even someone who feels forgotten will be remembered by someone they may have overlooked. I wonder if the feeling of forgotten is a projection of poor memory? How then to enrichen and coax the narratives into a kinder recollection?
I wish you all a bright season, and thank you for camaraderie and for showing interest in my work. For the first time in many years, since 2005 to be exact, I will be spending this holiday with family. I am excited. It was a long and painful separation, yet in that empty space my family once filled, I developed a lot –what Jung would call individuation — and, up against the painful silence of a careless world, I drew close to the warmth of the fire in my heart, and somewhere there located the elements of my survival. You may have noticed my tools. Writing. Running. Counseling. Reading. Mindfulness and meditation. Guitar. Your life can be what you make of it. Isn’t that freedom? I feel fortunate for my small freedoms in our world of power struggles and abuses. Yet the resolute kindness had to be gifted to myself, and still does. There was a time when I was a child then an adolescent and a teenager, and the many kindnesses were insinuated toward me. I believe the most kind among them, lovers and family and lifetime friends, were the ones who knew me best. And I felt insulted. For I knew they knew I was some walking contradiction, that somehow I was an act, and could betray myself in an instant! The ones who knew me, knew I was not kind to myself at all. I treated them poorly and almost as poorly as I experienced myself. I was a classless example on a long and endless tour. I was Keith Richards meets Brian Jones for a swim. I was a party of one, divisible by all. I had to be alone, in order to patiently await the resolute kindness within me. Otherwise, I risked the endless incinerations, and being reduced to a fraction of myself.
This is my confession to you. I know my writings tend to give only a glimpse of who I am and what I have been through. It is only through the greater whole of this website, and through the books that I write (yes, I am a novelist), you may know me more intimately. And you may also see my play and foreplay with the resolute kindness, within and without. I am the filter, and I attempt to surface and demystify the demons, to spin them around like a top and turn them. Turn them into friends and allies, within and without. I consider it some kinda alchemical process going on. I don’t create it, I just reflect it. When I am lucky, coal turns to silver and wine, into water. But I want to be honest with the process, and if all that turns up out the topsoil is a demon, well, there you have it, I will share a demon with the world and let the world handle it… I love it more when I can grow the kindness and press it out to you like a flower! This is (and was) my dream in twenty sixteen. And I will exercise a lien on twenty seventeen, and release more of this lovely, tangy stuff to you when i can, so we can share the resolute kindness.
As we walk these streets, mine and yours, the streets are ours.
Like the dope beats that we produced.
The rhythms. The –
Stop. I made a mistake.
No editing over ok.
Let the mistake be seen here now.
Otherwise how will you know I am human?
This your personal captcha.
I gotta build your trust. I wanna.
At least today.
I want the relationship in our fantasy to be sorta real but not exactly.
I have only one chance to get to intrigue.
I am excited like a heart in oxygenated blood. Like a come on before an orgasm.
The lens taking lessons from the eyes.
The ones who keep trying after so many tries.
Cause who would I be to simply cast a darkness around myself with my thoughts?
Who would I be if I grasped only the egocentric mind?
Writing checks cannot be cashed.
The divinity so mined.
The one I emulate. My deep model.
Singing all the harmony right off the glass bottle.
Anytime or three am, any night.
I used to manifest her, and feel all right.
Its okay to just say that you don’t know yourself so perfect yet, either.
Truth is you never know.
Self is not one fixed thought or interval. No.
And this is my opinion.
You can love it to death and cook it in a broth of onions you pulled from the ground.
Feels good when you commit.
Have you done so lately?
This is not a demand or an opportunity to embarrass you taken.
It is ok if you think so.
Then tell me somehow. If you can.
My feelings are my feelings.
I ask only that you be as honest as you can.
Such a brief intersection, our lives.
I wanna know you.
Well enough to help you with a little something or other.
Take off some of your burden.
For I see that you are aching.
Cause I know this particular iradescent-type