Wednesday, February 1, 2023

Everything went Under: January Poems

January was watery, everything went under. When I looked at the stars, they didn't look back for the first time in forever. I understood the specific loneliness of childhood from which we all must necessarily flee. Flee and find again? Well, heal anyway. 

We are the stories we tell, is one way to see it, but if we don't from time to time also see the way in which we are the teller, then our happiness is going to be compromised. It's not a crime against God or nature to be unhappy, but there is - there is always - another way. 

Also parenting, not only in the local sense, but the cosmic too. I thought about this a lot in January. (I wish I wasn't such a slow fucking learner which, if you're reading this means, I wish you weren't such a stingy fucking teacher). Great Mother, God the Father, et cetera. Our models are inherent. What is inherent isn't a trap nor even a mirror but a mode. You can't help but be an author, why author your own suffering let alone anyone else's? 

In January I fell out of falling in love, saw the way in which sex is basically a failure of communion because it rests on the confusion of seeing "I" as this or that body/object, became willing to live religiously (but did not live religiously), understood death is not "the end" but "an over," in the sense of, I'm grateful for Deleuze, Barthes, et alia, but I'm also over them. You have questions, I don't have answers. What is hard to explain may not need to be. The one thing I can comfortably say re: the Holy Spirit is it's not my place to speak for Him. But I do think a relationship with Him is worth nurturing. Also, if it's not scaring the shit out of you then you're not nurturing it, you're playing at nurturing. Mother up. 

"Nothing matters." Or everything does, right? When you see it's the same thing, a lot of joy and peace automatically attend. The party is ongoing, we're just too busy being too busy to notice to notice. Once or twice a year I dream of Emily Dickinson, the dreams follow a familiar pattern: there's a house, the house is haunted, she's the haunt and it's my job to teach her that she doesn't have to be scared anymore. Most recently, she could move through walls and I could not. How grateful I am for this mind!

In January, the poems were hard to write. I doubt them. The art doesn't erode so much as reveal itself eroded. Now what indeed. I'm not who I think I am and neither are you. And we never quite go away.

No comments:

Post a Comment