Thursday, December 21, 2006

Love is a priority.

I had a lovely conversation with a co-worker this morning. It has been a very rough day at work. The kids are going berserk. Their is acting out all over the place. I found myself getting exasperated. The home stretch is definitely in sight.

I went into the staff lounge and found my co-worker on the computer. We started talking about how crazy the morning was. Soon the conversation went from the difficulties of our positions here to the nature of biological imperative, Darwin and God, not your everyday discussion. It was a deeply refreshing drink of water in an otherwise dry day. By the end of our talk we had agreed to continue this at another time, maybe even see a movie together. Isn't it funny how surprises jump out at you when you absolutely least expect it and are not looking for it.

When we finished I felt a wonderful warmth. That is rare these days. Maybe it is old Saint Nick coming through, or the baby Jesus himself, or the Pagans, or the Druids, or the Who's of Whoville sending out their Good Vibrations. Whatever the spirit, I went into the Plant Managers office and grabbed a paper towel and wrote the following words:

Love is a priority.

I'm not sure where that came from. I like it. It would make a pretty neat bumper sticker. When my colleague mentioned that she felt a love coming from me, and has since she met me, it made me think. Why do some people exude that love, while others don't? And that saying came to me. IT IS A PRIORITY! That suggests that love is not really that much of a mystery. Well, it is a mystery, the greatest mystery of all. But to be a loving person is no different than being anything that you desire. When you put your attention on it above all other things, it blossoms and grows like the proverbial willow.

It kind of makes you wonder what the world would be like if Love were the sum total.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Ultimate pain.

I don't remember feeling this much pain for this extended period of time. It just keeps on going and going (like the Energizer Bunny). I think people begin to disappear from your life when you suffer from severe depression. I haven't had the guts to go back to Kaiser for awhile. I'm still terrified that they will 5150 me again. My life is an open book. I have nothing left to hide from anybody at all. Try and make an appointment with an HMO. If you get in to see someone it is a major miracle. I will keep trying to reach the people over at Psychiatry. It may be something as small as increasing my medication. I haven't had an increase in over two to three years. I was doing really well, until these ridiculous holidays came around. I have seen a definite increase in the level of ennui that people are experiencing this year. Whenever I mention it, people shake their heads as if to say "yeah, I'm with's the war". That was my first thought as well. The war, invisible that it is, has cast this terrible pall over the country. I think we all feel so unutterably powerless. But it seems more than that, for some reason. It feels very much like the monotony, the sameness of life, the alienation caused by poverty, the fear caused by addiction to security. All of these have a profound impact on my state of being. Plus, this never ending circle of self that keeps on rolling along, no matter how many people I help, and no matter how many activities I perform to "get out of " myself.

"Quite often I have been faced with people who were praised and admired for their talents and their achievements, who were toilet-trained in the first year of their lives, and who may even, at the age of one and a half to five, have capably helped to take care of their younger siblings. According to prevailing attitudes, these people - the pride of their parents - should have had a strong and stable sense of self-assurance. But the case is exactly the opposite. They do well, even excellently, in everything they undertake; they are admired and envied; they are successful whenever they care to be - but behind all this lurks depression, a feeling of emptiness and self-alienation, and a sense that their life has no meaning. These dark feelings will come to the fore as soon as the drug of grandiosity fails, as soon as they are not "on top, " not definitely the "superstar", or whenever they suddenly get the feeling they have failed to live up to some ideal image or have not measured up to some standard. Then they are plagued by anxiety or deep feelings of guilt and shame. What are the reasons for such disturbances in these competent, accomplished people?"


" The child has a primary need from the very beginning of her life to be regarded and respected as the person she really is at any given time.
When we speak here of 'the person she really is at any given time,' we mean emotions, sensations, and their expression from the first day onward. In an atmosphere of respect and tolerance for her feelings, the child, in the phase of separation, will be able to give up symbiosis with the mother and accomplish the steps toward individuation and autonomy. If they are to furnish these prerequisite's for the healthy development of their child, the parents themselves ought to have grown up in such an atmosphere. If they did, they will be able to assure the child the protection and well-being she needs to develop trust. Parents who did not experience this climate as children are themselves deprived; throughout their lives they will continue to look for what their own parents could not give them at the appropriate time - the presence of a person who is completely aware of them and takes them seriously. (Italics mine). This search, of course, can never fully succeed, since it relates to a situation that belongs irrevocably to the past, namely to the time right after birth and during early childhood. A person with this unsatisfied and unconscious (because repressed) need will nevertheless be compelled to attempt its gratification through substitute means, as long as she ignores her repressed life history. The most efficacious objects for substitute gratification are a parent's own children. The Newborn baby or small child is completely dependent on his parents, and since their caring is essential for his existence, he does all he can to avoid losing them. From the very first day onward, he will muster all his resources to this end, like a small plant that turns toward the sun in order to survive".

-Alice Miller - The Drama of the Gifted Child.
(Both quoted paragraphs).

Looking back is looking forward. It is liberation from the prison of self. It is a mythological act of courage. To live, conscious of the past in its entirety without flinching, is the very thing that will save this planet. I can think of no other act with so much depth and with so much ability to save us.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah.
Peace on Earth, Good will to man.

Love, Tony, Inky, Sahaja, Kitty.

I can't remember my last kiss.

It struck me this morning, "I can't remember my last kiss". I kiss my cat every morning. Actually, I kiss all three of them. Constantly. But I cannot remember the last real kiss I had with someone I cared about. I'll take it a step further. I can't remember the last time someone rubbed my back in bed. I have no memory at all of the last walk on the beach I had with someone. I don't have any recollection whatsoever about the last time I held hands with someone. Something so basic that the beatles became famous for it. This is not for lack of trying. I have definitely attempted to invite someone into my life to do this with me. But, alas, the participant declined, for reasons which still elude me.

During the holiday season, when so many have so few, I find that the circle of miasma, the self pitying part of me that loves to indulge itself, has come to town in full force this year. I am noticing the family photos much more readily. I find myself more unable to be around families and couples this year. Thankfully, I have my AA family. What in God's name would I do without them. I really have come to accept that AA is my family. Many people will not understand this truth. That's okay. I have a family that I go to once a day, bare my soul to the fullest, and "keep coming back". The rooms of AA have given me my life. I owe so much more than I even know to the program.

As far as a person to share it with. That is really in God's time, not mine. But I'm still here, waiting for that first kiss again. The one I can't quite remember.

Friday, December 15, 2006

When sanity cries, they come calling.

I have befriended myself and seen the limits of my loveliness. I start all sentences with I due to the cracking of my facade. In sonic interference and judgement comes freedom. William Blake reminds me of my uncle. The stars align for only a moment, then remit their origins to the light. My belly bounces vibrantly against the lake. I leap high into the wrong. Insanity is ours, if only we ask for it. God is here for the taking. Surrender the night to a reed bending noir. Extrapolate poison. Exemplify to the world the significance of Oz. Entrance oneself with Krumping. Clown dance your way to the soul. Enter underneath from there.

Help Me!

I am trapped in the body of a merciless comrade. I am formed by the malformation of a restraining order. I deepen the nail of my coffin with punch, the cherry kind. I love the body of Christ. I love the angelic quality of my students. I cry out to the love that takes love from me. I return to the kindness that limits the others. I forgive and reflect on the better angels of our nature. I damage the prior memories of my youth. I leave the house where I was born. I enter the entrails of my mirror. I grapple with the ignorance of my lovers. I scream at the din that is the city. I shriek at the silence that is nature. I discern the emergence of a paradox. I enter the regions of my "I". I inject myself with a numbing agent. I leave the world of the pestilent. I warm up the pie of my youth. I repeat the perlexities of my addictions. I dance the body electric. I sing the normal world's song. I am here and ebullient and distorted. I assume the position. I ask that you be quiet now. Please, be quiet now.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Do I even know what the truth is?

If someone asked me to tell them the truth of my life, I could give them a series of circuitous explanations. I would talk, quite eloquently, about my past but never reveal anything. I would tell them about my connection to a higher power, one that I have very little faith in at the moment. I would also explain how much pain I was in and then explain the existential condition of man's temporary and tragic plight on the planet earth; a life as brief as a candle waiting to be snuffed out.

I would then pontificate about the myriad of feelings associated with these descriptions of my life. I may wax poetic and sniffle a bit, my eyes welling up with tears as I become "nostalgic" for the past, the "good ol' days", knowing full well that those days never existed at all. I would try and make some kind of sense out of my suffering, out of the absurd inequity that is life, and claim that being concious is better than being unconcious because conciousness is more true. I would pat myself on the back, recognizing the courage needed to meet myself.

I would be no closer to being honest about who I am, however. The truth at this point in my life, is I will spend reams of energy on trying to convince myself that what I feel really isn't that deep. That the rage and anger and hurt and confusion that I experience in the depths of my soul are better kept at bay. That what I really need to do is "buck up, old chap". Keep that smile on my face at all costs, because "we are not a glum lot". I would miss the very real truth of who I am that an honest expression would bring. I would be spending all my time avoiding this and "acting as if".

I cannot do this anymore. It is killing me. I am ready to reveal who I am to myself in my absolute nakedness and horror. Whatever grotesque mask I shed, and what is underneath, I am ready to face. I am ready to be honest with myself, even if it brings my house down.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

So, this is how it's going to be?

How do I start talking about this subject without sounding full of self-pity? How do I express my feelings, and frustrations, and rage about what I'm planning on talking about without alienating every one who might want to empathize with my plight? I guess I can't really concern myself with that too much. This is really a forum to express myself, and whoever might get something out of it is really gravy. I know that sounds like a deeply narcissistic thing to say, but what the hey, I'm a narcissist.

I appear totally unable to form and establish an intimate relationship with someone. Strike that. I appear unable to even get out of the gate. One first needs to get out of the gate before even considering the possibility of conceiving of having an intimate relationship. A series of events appear necessary prior to even, shall we say, the contemplation of the consideration of the event of concerning oneself with the potential of a relationship. See what I'm saying? We haven't even left the realm of the conception. I'm still in the potty training stage of relationships at 45 years old.

Would it be out of the realm of possibility, or even the realm of probability, that there has been some sort of developmental stuntation going on here? A stuntifying retardation? A "Special Needs" situation? Is this condition an inflexible, unmoveable feast? What is really going on here? I'm quite serious about this question? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? How many more women am I going to pursue and then crumble into shattered segments after the first attempt on my part? How powerful are the forces that continue to shame me unmercifully from moving towards love? Are these the same forces that prevent me from moving, and living, my dreams?How many years of therapy, and recovery, and spirituality et al...will it take to even comprehend the problem?

If I at least understood the problem then I think I would have some sort of take on it. The mud is so thick that I am unable to see anything but molasses. My mind is finished with trying to solve this riddle. The only solution I can even mutter, is God. Whatever the hell that means to me, at this time in my life. An absolute, complete personal surrender to God. This is the only answer that consistently arises when I feel this kind of despair. It punches through all the veils and leaves me with some semblance of the truth. It returns me to the understanding that God's love is the one true love. It is the only force that can solve the terrible emptiness that persistently rises in an attempt to convince me that the substance, in whatever form, is the truth. I know that is not true today. But I don't know it at the level of the mind. I know it at the level of the moment.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Reza Abdoh quote

"In ancient cultures, they didn*t practice theory in their dances; they wanted to arrive at a state of trance, and I think that's an appropriate approach for the arts: to create a work that is entrancing."�Reza Abdoh

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Endless Nap

A cot to sleep on, private floor.
Urine stained memory, recess over.

Sparkle stars chromatic, zombies all.
The milk truck comes and goes.

This ancient burial land interrupts
all nursery school dreams. It, not the
clock or Ms. Betty, wakes us up.
The tumble of juice bells ring.
Ring a ling.

Soul siesta. Wipe the soot out of your eyes.
Little chica stands where little squaw has her
lunch ticket.
The bison and corn maze served only on Fridays.
Where's my momma?

Upon the ceiling, wooden planks old
as William S. Hart, are painted over
frescoes dandelion arabesque.
The brown can't stay.
Smoked chrome and glass fruitloops.
A skinless drum beats reflections
off the top of northern San Fernando Valley clay.
Just take the 405 and exit 1966.
Turn left at San Fernando Mission,
3 blocks east of 1963.

Busch Gardens still runs the evening monorail,
and the Metro Link serves the tracks below.
The tracks of me. I glance out the top of my double decker
Ventura bound, and see the glow of a
shining crystal vision over my head.
High up on electric winter cable song.
The flash of instamatic Polaroid swingers
wearing ray bans and carnuba in their hair.
A fall tram with bouffant beauty and flat top dreams.

From the aft, a spitfire hot wheel bat burn accelerator
pushes through a Geidi Prime. An aluminum siding cavern
swallows my youth and I can only peak up higher,
my nose pressed against utility,
not progress.

The no-vacancy junk yards lie dormant and unlit
as the Ventura bound kicks up black oil and tire.
Their dead husks pick-a-part and implicate us in their
metal graves.
Click a clack. Click a clack.

The big beautiful trolley slowly disappears into the dying tunnel.
The light from the rear window undulates with Brillcream.
A young girl peeking out -
looking past herself at the mystery of time.

Shamu herself declares Marineland off limits,
even to the pearl divers.
I pull the shade down and, though it's night,
the sun blinds me.

When turning my head to the center,
it becomes amazed at the carnival of souls traveling circus.
Each rider a Y-Chromosome with spats
and a bowler hat: cardboard facsimiles
bereft of life,
destined for insurance cubes,
while smoking AM radios.

The Wolfman howls at the real Don Steele.
Each rider solidifies an arcane cause celebre.
Only the lonely can play. I'm still nowhere.

Closing my eyes, the white Nash rolls past deep valley
Southwest 1959.
Lots of milk bottles lined up.
Lots of hope.

The monkey bars stand empty,
newly minted concrete and sand.
The desolate, pristine squeaky cleanliness
of a post atomic world.
Cupids hot dog stand offers aroma of Einsenhower,
with plenty of mustard and loyalty,
onions and mother's milk.

Rivets decorate my sinuses,
which fail to heed the oncoming warnings of the world,
HG Wells style,
trolley lurching to and fro with viruses which cause dizzying.
Unable to breathe, I urgently care for the sick and downtrodden.
The pressure builds to a crescendo
as the stairwell is consumed by masking dust,
enveloped by immigrant labor of North Orange County lopes.
A dah creek oh crack.

In times where innocence resides
in Bobby Darren's shoelaces,
it's best to be reminded of the grateful Kem beetle,
twisty and frothful with a rumpled bum.
Close up Demille, grotesque and comely,
with forelegs shiver and quiver changing the iris
of that one nascent crab.

Nabobs bellow with Grunion run.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were German".
Here's to Hilda and her many layered shnitzels.
Peanut flavored shtonk lisping its way tremulously
past Dresden.
Is this the way to the Berlin wailing wall?
"Just put your question in the glory hole
and it might come back moist",
the Kem beetle cries.

As each rusty street of crocodiles foams magnificent,
small ancient puppets retake Manhattan.
Crisp oily sacks of onion flavored rhizome
join forces with swirled and intimate smoke
rising on a bed of lightly basted heating grills.
Duct glands of port sear the back of the throat,
open to one's nearly perfect tenor.

Upload granny and her $2 dollar shoes.
Giuliani me upward, high up to the spectacular
Staten Island, Camelot of clean air,
hopeful lugubriousness, and incandescent ball parks.

Send me back to that heavenly intersection,
where freeways collide with reason to remind me
of a gentler era.
A Golden season of movable parts,
and circular dungeons.

Lick my plate over and over,
from the hammering and nailing
and unstoppable forward motion,
time stopped dead.

My heart leaps mundane life.
The music of my room is deafening.
A summer stream flows unimpeded
back into my womb.

Such glorious infection!
Such magnificent resilience!
Such microbiology!