Saturday, June 03, 2023

wherever, i am

The medicine of coffee. Heals even the terminal. Drink with me, will you?

“Mes amis, je vous remercie d’être venus. Je vous remercie pour  

la chance de votre amitié. Ne pleurez pas: souriez comme  

je vous aurais souri. Je vous bénis. Je vous aime.  

Je vous souris, où que je sois.”  


“My friends, I thank you for coming. I thank you for the  

good fortune of your friendship. Do not cry: smile as  

I would smile at you. I bless you. I love you.  

I am smiling at you, wherever I am.”  


The final words  

of Jacques Derrida (1930–2004),  

read by his son at his graveside 

I will not read another word about professional athletes. Millionaires many times over. Hype and hyperbole. I don't have a jumpshot anymore. I can't lift a ball out of the infield. I am tackled (so to speak) after making catch behind line of scrimmage. 

“One can, of course, speak several languages. There are speakers who are competent in more than one language. Some even write several languages at a time (prostheses, grafts, translation, transposition) . But do they not always do it with a view to an absolute idiom? and in the promise of a still unheard-of language? of a sole poem previously inaudible?” 

― Jacques Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other: or, The Prosthesis of Origin 

If all my friends came to visit me at once in this room, I would still be alone. It's not that I don't have any friends, it's just that I don't have any friends. But if I remain alone, if I step outside barn, if I sit in yurt or on porch of meditation cabin, if, even on cold mornings like today, I sit on front porch of house -- there, in each of these places, all my friends sit or stand or remain rooted or fly by or walk nearby. 

The illusion is the partitioning. A convenient illusion, nevertheless an illusion.

“How can another see into me, into my most secret self, without my being able to see in there myself? And without my being able to see him in me. And if my secret self, that which can be revealed only to the other, to the wholly other, to God if you wish, is a secret that I will never reflect on, that I will never know or experience or possess as my own, then what sense is there in saying that it is my secret, or in saying more generally that a secret belongs, that it is proper to or belongs to some one, or to some other who remains someone. It's perhaps there that we find the secret of secrecy. Namely, that it is not a matter of knowing and that it is there for no one. A secret doesn't belong, it can never be said to be at home or in its place. The question of the self: who am I not in the sense of who am I but rather who is this I that can say who? What is the I and what becomes of responsibility once the identity of the I trembles in secret?” 

― Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Deat; also p.82,+derrida%22&pg=PA82&printsec=frontcover

 I stay home. (Who is this "I" and what is this "home"?) I walk the dog. He looks for and pines for other dogs. I'm not so much of a companion as a means of transport to the possibility there might be dogs at the Snowbowl. He considers the Canada Geese in center of field as they consider his consideration. I cluck mouth sound and he turns away from any considered action. We amble in relative solitude. And although he probably will not admit it, he interiorly grumbles.

Derrida's non-concept of différance, resembles, but is not, negative theology, an attempt to present a tacit metaphysics without pointing to any existent essence as the first cause or transcendental signified. Following his presentation of his paper "Différance" in 1968, Derrida was faced with an annoyed participant who said, "It [différance] is the source of everything and one cannot know it: it is the God of negative theology." Derrida's answer was, "It is and it is not."[18]

In contrast to negative theology, which posits something supereminent and yet concealed and ineffable, différance is not quite transcendental, never quite "real", as it is always and already deferred from being made present. As John Caputo writes, "Différance is but a quasi-transcendental anteriority, not a supereminent, transcendental ulteriority."[19] The differences and deferrings of différance, Derrida points out, are not merely ideal, they are not inscribed in the contours of the brain nor do they fall from the sky, the closest approximation would be to consider them as historical, that is, if the word history itself did not mean what it does, the airbrushing speech of the victor/vanquished.

Derrida has shown an interest in negative or apophatic theology, one of his most important works on the topic being his essay "Sauf le nom".[20],are%20related%20to%20each%20other.

I live heuristically. I do it without success. It is my finest non-achievement. 

  heuristic,  adjective

    • serving to indicate or point out; stimulating interest as a means of furthering investigation.
    • encouraging a person to learn, discover, understand, or solve problems independently, as by experimenting, evaluating possible answers or solutions, or by trial and error: The course uses a heuristic teaching method to allow students to find answers without being directly taught.
    • of, relating to, or based on experimentation, evaluation, or trial-and-error methods.
    • Computers, Mathematics. pertaining to a trial-and-error method of problem solving used when an algorithmic approach is impractical.

what year is this

 this pain in my head

comes each year and I forget

after a while, goes --

one day the pain will arrive

staying -- ouch -- and I will go

Friday, June 02, 2023

when in doubt, god

Lightning, thunder, rain

Friday evening in June —

God is no-other

marguerite porete poem

 In prison this morning poetry and mysticism



It was simply eight people talking together

“Not really” one said when he had to leave


hushed, noting, nothing

Fragrant scent of porch morning, sun up over Melvin Heights, old motorcycle draped in blue tarp, handlebar sticking out, there on near branches, pink/purple/red flowering blossoms  


                     by Ryokan

Now that all thoughts have subsided
off I go, deep into the woods,
and pick me
a handful of shepherd's purse.
Just like the stream
meandering through mossy crevices
I, too, hushed
become utterly clear.

English version by Gabriel Rosenstock, Original Language Japanese

I am not clear. Nor am I thinking. Moist dew fragrance in one screen through to screen over shoulder. There’s not(h)ing that I want. Nor is there anything other than this presentation of what once was called God’s  face. (In abandoned room above, faint bells, morning alarm). Soon we will leave for prison — but first, hummingbird takes inventory.

Thursday, June 01, 2023

the flickering possibility

 No one dead or dying here at hospice house. The last patient here died this morning. 

Here in this great room ceiling fan turns. Wisteria and pussy willow in blue vase on step to dormant gas fireplace in center of room. I get to sit in silence. I read from Caputo book.

In the quiet of this place I get to remember the people I’ve sat with here over the years. 

Yesterday I learned of two people I’d worked with forty-forty five years ago — an administrator who thought (erroneously) I was a nice man, and a clinical social worker who was always biting on his substantial Irish mustache. Of course, people die. But that splash of memory…

 “Perhaps” bends in the winds of what insists without existence, of what withdraws from presence, pointing like the arrow of a weathervane in the direction of the promise, of the flickering possibility of what neither is nor is not.

Excerpt from: "The Insistence of God: A Theology of Perhaps" by John D. Caputo. Scribd.

Caputo thinks we should consider, reconsider, and call into question our certainty about many things.

It’s a good practice.

Like this empty room.

Empty of what?

Empty of anything we think not here.

But there is nothing not here. Everything is here.

And if there is anything intriguing we have learned about “God” is that God Is Here — which, quite possibly, is the actual name of God.

“Insists without existence.”

That which is within and through…

This very room.

a willingness to accept

Next breath? Or, no breath?

Always the unspoken question.

Some day I won’t even think that question. 

The middle way involves a willingness to accept either rebirth or no rebirth of consciousness in another life.  

But the problem of rebirth of craving is the most universal, as well as the most significant and most urgent, for it pertains to all times, regardless of whether it be this moment, this life, or future lives if there are to be future lives.  

If one has solved this problem and is freed from craving, then all other problems cease to be problems, for with respect to them there is no longer any craving.   (in, Dialogues of the Buddha, dailyzen)

 Rebirth doesn’t interest. Nor does it’s opposite.

Heaven or hell, afterthoughts, have no attraction.

What you consider your strengths and weaknesses, your accomplishments or failures, are completely unintelligible to tree and wind.

What would things be like without craving? Do you want to know? 

Would everything be simply itself?

Quite possibly.

And if everything were simply itself, we would stand exactly where we are, look this way and that way, breathe in . . . 

And have no concern whether there would be a breathing out.

Ah, there it is, an out-breath.

And whether anything follows, another in-breath, an afterlife, or nothing …


when you sit and look at it realistically

I don’t mind dying.

There’s a lot I’ll never get to see. 

The universe is expanding, with every galaxy beyond the Local Group speeding away from us. Today, most of the universe's galaxies are already receding faster than the speed of light. All galaxies currently beyond 18 billion light-years are forever unreachable by us, no matter how much time passes. 

The Hubble eXtreme Deep Field (XDF) has observed a region of the sky of only 1 / 32,000,000 of the total, but was able to discover a whopping 5,500 galaxies in it: an estimated 10% of the total number of galaxies actually contained in it. The remaining 90% of the galaxies are either too faint or too red or too dark for Hubble to reveal. (Source: HUDF09 and HUDF12 teams; processing: E. Siegel)

However, most of them are already permanently unavailable for us.

A lot.

 I’ll never.

And a lot, here on earth among my fellow material beings, that I have seen, I don’t need to see again.

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

there's no laughter at a crime scene

Laugh at once and

the joke is funny

then there is

the unfunny 

so many bad ideas

began as a bad joke

not long ago

a bad joke became

a bad idea -- that grievance 

and hatred should define us

this unfunny joke and

bad idea lingers

so many try to rehabilitate

unfunny bad idea pretending

our ears, gut, and brain are

flawed, deaf, gutless, dumb

pushing the unfunny bad

idea along slimy street gutters

expecting something other (again)

to emerge from the plainly awful

take me, to you(r), leader

 This from Center for AI Safety: 

AI experts, journalists, policymakers, and the public are increasingly discussing a broad spectrum of important and urgent risks from AI. Even so, it can be difficult to voice concerns about some of advanced AI’s most severe risks. The succinct statement below aims to overcome this obstacle and open up discussion. It is also meant to create common knowledge of the growing number of experts and public figures who also take some of advanced AI’s most severe risks seriously. 

Their succinct statement: 


Mitigating the risk of extinction from


AI should be a global priority


alongside other societal-scale risks


such as pandemics and nuclear war.



Please add to signatory list:

W.F.Amanesciri, (NEMI)

Nonitinerant Eremitic Mendicant Idiorhythmic 

hi elizabeth, hi mary (לְבַקֵר -- a visit)

The two of them, plump

with pregnancy, sit with figs

olives water — sun

ascending over anvil

talk of swaddles and day . . . care

Tuesday, May 30, 2023

unpoetry is what this is not

 God is not anything

God — is what we hear when emptiness

Falls out of a vacant space 

God abandoned when divinity

Gave up occupying anything other than . . .

What becomes itself 

sit for a spell and have a think

 Do we alter it

 or altar — reality?

Which word faces it?

war is not anything but sorrow

 After his death he no

longer wrote letters back home —

how stupid war is

Monday, May 29, 2023

a friend wrote me letters from the war

 Vinny was a left handed catcher. Even in 1959 that seemed strange. He had the body type of a well balanced crab scuttling its way to the mound to hand the baseball to the pitcher. His mouth squared away. Spikes indenting dirt. Hat backwards. Face mask a jail cell of protection from foul balls and backswings. He was wonderful.

The Vietnamese landline didn’t care that in 1962 on a sidewalk in Manhattan Vinny smiled as he told me these people at the party I’d convinced a bunch of guys to come to when I worked for the New York life insurance company “are not my kind of people.” They weren’t mine neither. But it was all I knew that summer and the next day I’d probably strike out looking and Vinny would throw out two runners at second..

Six years later the mine would explode under his boot and I’d already left the seminary. Sitting at my grandfather’s desk at bottom of stairs in Brooklyn basement I’d learn of his death in Southeast Asia. I might have tried to write a poem, maybe attempt what passed then as prayer to say one — but all I remember is I cried. 

The silence of his catchers mitt is all that the dirt in its pocket preserves.

in memorium, today

 We Honor

Celebrate and




Dead and

Deadened by


Praying for

the well-being

of what


Sunday, May 28, 2023

disintegration of contemporary culture


Reading/listening to Violence Unveiled: Humanity at the Crossroads, by Gil Bailie.

After 25 years of paperback on bookshelf.

Substantial anthropological study of René Girard’s work Violence and the Sacred.

an inexistent solicitation

It is Pentecost. 

In the zeitgeist of spirituality, a time of inexplicable access to the inter-dimensional gateless open. where existence is unnecessary and life is beyond thought.

A moment of no barrier, no boundary.

No-place known; the beyond an umwelt — everything within everything, all, at once.

 The name of God is not the name of a Supreme Being who does things or mysteriously leaves them undone but of what is getting done in and under this name. God does not exist; God insists. God does not subsist; God calls. God’s might is the might-be of a dangerous “perhaps.” In The Folly of God, I said that God’s folly is that, not thinking existence something to cling to, God emptied himself into the world (Phil 2:6–7), leaving existence to us, which is risky business, both for God and for us since we may or may not follow through. In each case, God is an inexistent solicitation, to which we are to be the existential response. We are responsible for the existence of God. We are the ones God is waiting for to make the Kingdom come true, for God to be God. In the end, the real question is not “Does God exist?” but rather, as Katharine Sarah Moody puts it on my behalf, “Will there have been God ?”

(—in Preface of CROSS AND COSMOS  A Theology of Difficult Glory  


Typically, everyday, we live in the zeros and ones, the materiality of manifestation,  the diffident derision of unawareness handcuffing us, our stumbling imbalance jostling in below-deck careening uncontrollably in cyclonic storm.

Then . . .

Suddenly . . .

“Emptied into the world” — not standing out from it — suchness as suchness!

The wholly undifferentiated, the holy interpenetrating presence, originates ITSELF, as it is, such as it is, the within without, the without within — (insistent invitation) —