Saturday, August 26, 2023

can i go now

 I sit alone. And?

And nothing. Sit alone stand

Alone. Nothing else.

sit nomen innominatam reverendus

 blessed be the name

which is every name, deep

within the nameless

look around look within you

such soundless silence umwelt

Friday, August 25, 2023

neither created nor destroyed

 What’s the matter with …

(fill in the blank) — body gone

Mind gone, soul gone — we

Say “dead” as if we knew— still,

What’s the matter with what’s gone

still life with footsteps

 Rain on roof cat on

Rug stillness throughout morning

Tea kettles hang on

Weathervane above handtruck

Rusting where blue paint flecks off

Thursday, August 24, 2023

no matter what t.aquinas or m.eckhart think

 It’s not the image

It’s not the mirror holding —

it is the telling

What it is what it is not —

mere story is everything

augúst cheerio

late august, clear air

year nears end, soon thirty first

auld lang sein -- be gone

not hearing anything

 Rhetoric lost the 

debate and interview last 

night — obfuscation

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

what if all opinion went missing

 thinking of being

alone -- nothing moves in room,

(cat yawns), plane in sky

like breeze through prayer flags

 don't mind me, I'm off

bible quoters -- a respite --

preferring silence

dogen zenji is on to something

body and mind drop 

stillness and silence remain

alone without fuss

Tuesday, August 22, 2023

a sketch on wall

 It was a long time

ago we were friends, as I 

recall, but i might 

be mistaken — thing about

time — it changes perspective 

Monday, August 21, 2023

consider this

 Finding fault finds fault

Responding with compassion

Retains humanness


                        (Toward an obscured sorrow: n. embodying with presence each prisoner)

 walk into prison 

out same morning, nod, passing

through conversation 

we are ghosts in each other

stepping through delight with words

Sunday, August 20, 2023

the same as he usually is

Tina sends Wendy Cope poem from The Writer's Almanac "Being Boring." It fits so well.

But it was the sentence later on about Hart Crane that brought me up short:  

  In 1932, while sailing on a ship from Havana to New York, he came out on the deck wearing a topcoat over his pajamas. He took off his coat, folded it neatly over the rail, and jumped into the Gulf of Mexico. His body was never found.

I did not know that.

It takes me to the first two stanzas of his poem "The Bridge" (1930):

 How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest

The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,

Shedding white rings of tumult, building high

Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes   

As apparitional as sails that cross

Some page of figures to be filed away; 

 —Till elevators drop us from our day ...  

(--from, The Bridge: To Brooklyn Bridge, by Hart Crane)

 It remains a curiosity -- the taking of one's own life. It is so widely frowned upon. Often condemned. In fact, illegal:

Suicide remains a criminal offence in at least 20 countries around the world, with some laws dating back up to 160 years ago.

Criminalising suicide doesn’t prevent people from acting on suicidal thoughts: it simply stops them from reaching out and seeking help in times of acute crisis.

In fact, at the World Health Assembly in 2019 all health ministers agreed that decriminalising suicide was an effective way to reduce deaths by suicide when they approved the World Health Organization (WHO) Mental Health Action Plan for 2021-2030.

  Except for those with untreatable or close terminal illnesses without any hope of prolongation or any quality of life, I opt for discouraging anyone from acting on suicidal ideation or moving toward setting plan to fruition. 

Why would I discourage suicide?

Here's Wendy Cope:

Being Boring             

                 'May you live in interesting times.' Chinese curse 

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion - I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last.
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

I'll stay with that preference. . .

for the time-being.

domine ad adjuvandum me festina

 At three in morning

Rain, going to dooryard truck

Close windows, compline

not until now

 Monks chant Lauds from France

Mystery sound mattering

What we call God, here