Posts Tagged ‘modern soliloquies’

I’m looking into your eyes right now.  I love you.

Don’t quit not quitting on yourself, whatever is in your heart — big, important, longing stuff like the quest for true love.

Swing tenacity’s knife exactly as sagacity has swung your willy, nilly dilly head.

Look reality in its bright, bulging, blinking eye.

Track down any self-care apathy within, jump any legitimacy laxity — kill them both.

And don’t forget to take up the continuous, scientific adoration of honesty.

If you adore emotional integrity, if you favor psychological congruency, if you pound out new affective territory — then you will not fall off a cliff at night and you will not lose all you have always hoped for.

Here is what to do.

Stare love right in the snout and speak the truth, lean in and grind out a bushel basket of openness, eat a yard of authenticity and knock back true falsity.

Shout, charge and retake the emotional high ground.

What are you thinking?

You are all that anyone could ever want — you precious cargo, you personhood of inestimable value, you absolutely gorgeous emotive mess.

You’re tired?

Okay, go watch some brain dead TV.

You’ve tried and failed?

Okay, go to bed and get some sleep.

Remember when we had lunch last week. I told you that the first three tries don’t keep the fourth from succeeding.

In the face of failure, tenacity is the still the best policy — and ontogeny.

If you can’t grow one thing then grow another, you long, glorious bank of radiant blooms planted in previous springs.

Every seed you have ever sown — even if it has died in someone else — has flowered in your own soul. 

87 octane runs in our veins and propels us across the earth.

We shoot forward; we roar; we soar.

We are the motionable-mighty, motile, engined, tail-piped, turboed, technoed. We drag dead carbon from the ground, we race upon the earth, we fill the air. We fly the sky; we reign on high.

We rocket through the great waters, zoom over the high mountains, blast through the gorgeous firmament.

We gawk, ogle, probe and souvenir.

We are free — from atrophy, locality and gravity.

How?

What miracle here?

What science there?

What necromancy — what no mere slight of hand —  what awesome slight of time and space?

This, just this.

By crude oil we moil. By black gunk we are fleetingly royal.

We have sucked the black blood from the earth; we have shot it straight into our societal-industrial veins; thus even more than before, we are the paragon of the animals, wear a high and dizzy crown, drive a rattling carriage trailing smoke, the grim castle ahead.

Oil toil, roil and boil, wind and soil and sea we spoil.

Though the dark we plummet, thick black smoke trailing behind.

A world-wide boom; a clacking oily loom, what high and lofty king will we entomb?

I heard it announced on the radio yesterday that world hunger has decreased.

Only eight hundred million people don’t have enough to eat.

I kept driving: I don’t know why I didn’t pull over?

Grief, horror, and ruination!

Devastation!

Desecration!

Disambiguation!

Eight!

Hundred!

Million!

People!

Hungry?

 

This morning I cut my home-made banana bread thick.

I fill my coffee cup high.

I add milk.

Later in the day I will go out shopping, looking for blueberries, kale, almond milk, butternut squash, and also lean meat, blue corn taco shells, cilantro.

I may pick up some of the double chocolate covered peanuts I like so much.

 

Mad, mad, mad world — what is this numbing, numbered, not-knowing-knowing?

What is this crazy, chronic, crafty, killing contrast, this monumental, massive capacity for indifference, our gapping, gaping, going, going, gone unawareness of awareness.

What is the eating of delicacies in the same room as the starving?

Thirty billion light years from my finger tips the galaxies burn with white hot light —

I live in fire.

You fiery furnace — universal kiln,

I know your heat, warmth, singe, arc, burn.

I’ve seen your luminaries — glowing in my telescopes.

I know your lightening flashes on Jupiter.

Your volcanoes blowing up on IO.

And here too — your vibrating atoms, your everyday blue brightness and the noctiluca scintillans glowing in my own ocean.

But our fires — the ones we hunch down dark over, fumble, fidget, fume, kindle — they are differently dangerous.

We go home, click on our bulbs and run our thermostats to high.

We go out, shining small flashlights.

We devour the Lascaux.

We crave the light and spread low fire upon the earth.

We torch the Amazon.

We burn inside with a fierce, fickle, final anger,

We rain fire upon each other —

All our fires go out quickly.

And so it comes to this — you hold our hands after we have burned them,

Sooth and salve our blackened skin,

And hug us,

You sit beside us when we cry.

And with you near, we warm again from the inside out.

Together we flash, flame, flume, flare, scintillate, shimmer, sparkle and shine.

You will never go out.

Praise you.

Dark matter, consciousness, death, love — sweet set up to sell stuff.

Mystery lurks lucrative, so someone will always be hawking some witchery here, some voodoo there, magic, hocus-pocus, rhino horn, ecstacy, patent medicine.

But what is mystery?

Is it waving wand, silly staff, potent drug, scientific theory or secret glen? Is it esoteric syntax, new tech, plastic cross?

I think it’s nothing like that, nothing behind the curtain, gorilla glass, trees. It’s no hidden valley, magic hat or moving hand; no poetic cadge, literary cajolery, scientific skullduggery, religious legerdemain, no techno-tricks, no super-app, no tomb, mountain, moon or cave.

Mystery is not witch, wizard, wonk or wise one pulling levers behind the scene.

Mystery needs no proponents. It needs no operator, no literature, no religion, no science, no opiates, no humbug, physicist, diviner, historian, alchemist, prophet, priest, astronomer, amman, poet, shaman or techie.

For there, in every bit and bite, frag and piece and slice of life and world and space and time,

Exists the quiddity, the essence, the quintessence, the very non-not-nucleus of mystery.

Mysterium tremendum et fascinans —

It is the reflection of the tree in my bird bath this morning.

My tapping keyboard,

The cat sleeping beside me,

The rectangle of sun on the nook table,

And you, gone off to shop,

And return again because of your love for me.

I love life!

The wind blows the curtains aside at every window.

You can’t keep stuff under wraps, in the box, off the breeze.

Out, out, out! It’s all getting out

Whippy, wily feathered things fly from their cage doors at the first opportunity. Glittery, golden, gorgeous things keep breaking out of their corrals.

You can’t keep the goat from crossing the troll bridge, the cat off the counter and the lid on the pot when steaming the vegetables. It bounces, in place. You can’t even keep the potatoes from sprouting in the cupboard.

Light shines, kittens sleep on each other, water rises over the dam, things fly away, plants sprout.

Take beauty, it streams from every street corner — statues, trees, pets, lamp posts, signs, flowers, girls — the beautiful stuff just won’t stop popping out at the intersections.

And we keep popping out too, from various and curious disasters.

Potential — it smiles from the men at the bottom of the piles.

Hope sprouts from the misses in their little black dresses.

All our best commodities spring from our worst oddities.

Bravery leaps from fear.

Belief rises within every outburst of doubt.

A snatch of love pops up to overwhelm every living scrap of hate.

In every conversation lurks a friendship, or a partnership or a marriage.

Nothing stays down for long!

What’s next?

I can hardly wait!

Rules for girls?

Unstring the pearls!

Gender hierarchy?

It’s malarkey!

Some supposedly very good men I know, dressed in ties, some women in boots, chosen ones in suits — think men are better than women.

I don’t.

I don’t like the deep-down-damning drop of it.

I like it like I like the influenza!

He-ruling-she has forced the whole world down, within a smallish bucket, like the flu, put us to bed, under the covers, given us a hopeless, hellish, hacking cough that wracks and wastes our wanting world.

The really wise know that world health lies in the remedial awareness that there is really no one better or worse, that there is no one less, that in all if us exists both male and female, slave and free, Jew and Greek.

Inside us — there is human — and that is it.

And in one human loving another human the same, all doomed dominance is done.

I will say it: We are ready now for a healing between men and women. We are aching for cures, not more harm. The whole world is on tip toe ; we men are longing, even aching, for forgiveness, mercy and respect from our mothers, sisters, wives and daughters, and they ache for this from us too. We all, together, long for the kind of mutual honoring that bring us all better romances, friendships, marriages, families, businesses, churches and governments. 

Bring this, I say! Bring baskets overflowing with honoring.

Bring me my sisters, every femi who has been held back, every one imprisoned within the walls of a genderized poverty or stuffed into a gift-killing-Spirit-grieving-gendered grave. And bring me my brothers too, clothed in a new desire to share power.

We are all the called; now call us all out, and sitting down together at the table, let us drape all male and female weakness in power.

Let’s pick wild flowers in the dessert and offer each other bouquets of respect.

As if presenting dark chocolates, let’s hand each other the bitter-sweetness of foil-wrapped empowerments.

As if we had gone out and bought each other Van Gogh’s, or Frieda Kahlo’s, let’s lavishly gift each other with equality.

Of all the desultory tenderness of life to love, the household intimacies stand out.

Those happy sprayings, scrubbings and rinsings, those putter-headed hums and dumbed-down calms that come within the circular motions of the bummed, do-and-be-done domestic particularities — the dirty dishes, tubs of laundry, vacuuming, dusting, the toilets — chorish and boorish as they be, they rank, crank and bank sweet, summed satisfaction.

These make up the warp, woof and womp of wondrous, wellish world.

Cleaning is such a lovely craft.

The winkling out of the personal particular with sponge or rag, the wiping, staging and preserving of our stuff, and the tossing out and keeping in — this is the good life.

Life is a sorting, a chucking, a washing and a storing business. We hunker down, do our own work, make our own domestic map, live as we choose.

I love it.

I’m not for maids or house keepers, or yard guys either. I am my own standard of order, I vibrate to my own cleaning chord. I live as I choose on my own steamed-cleaned carpet, mown lawn, within my own weeded flower garden, my own mucked out lily pond, my own potted patio, in the cubicles of my own closet organizer, in my own self-painted bedroom.

And I wish to keep it this way. I will do my own household tasks, live close to my own humanity, make my own bed, clean my own toilet, go through my own drawers, say my own household prayers, wash my own dishes, mow my own yard, shave my own face, take out my own trash.

It’s sanity, this happy, safe, soothing seeing too oneself.

It isn’t humbling; it’s intimate.

Someone once said to me, “It’s the little things that drive you crazy!”

It’s not.

It’s the little things that drive you sane — pills, pats and pets.

All praise for what is small: dollops and gobs and dabs, the edges of pie crusts, chocolate shavings.

Hail micro-sacredness of life, tiny flotsam and mini-jetsam — veins, mists, creeks, fogs.

Is it not life’s micro-detail, womp and woof of wondrous world, that moves us to gratitude?

Drops, pinches, dashes, rain, cinnamon, lotion; fermions, flounces, hadrons, hats, bosons, bacon bits, antiquarks — there is a breath-taking thereness in the smallest things.

And then at last there is the weight and force of slivered, severed time.

The massive power of one, tiny, single “was.”

The mighty microsity of one “will be.”

And the astonishing force of this quickly, quarky, snarky second’s “is.”

I hate death!

We all do —  except the ones in so much pain they reach longingly for the deep-downed, dark-doored, dumb-doped end. And the one who kills, again, and thrills to it — scary-eyed, numb, weirdly mad, mad, mad.

And yet, short of that, we bumble down the straight path toward the end blithely ignoring the dark, grim, hooded, million-scythed, body-reaping hole of life.

And when it does come to our door, we weep bitterly over the loss of  the one while remaining stupidly unmoved by the send-off of millions. In precisely this death-doped fashion we expose the colossal smallness and massive shortness of our empathetic reach.

And yet, thinking on it, on that unknown slam, bam and wham, who doesn’t blanch, lurch and fear a bit?  We all know that lurking somewhere in life’s caked cracks, its splintered beaks, broken teeth and diseased gums creeps and spreads the end. On all clocks, hour glasses and sun dials vultures sit.

Life is scary; if it weren’t so, death wouldn’t make us so afraid.

And so we temporize, prop up, work out and go for looks. It doesn’t help. Facelifts, breast implants and wigs just make the corpses weirder.

But whatever we do, or don’t do, say or don’t say at the end, in ritual and ceremony, bent solemnly over the still bodies, there is no getting around this: On your mark, get set — die!

And yet — not.

Of all the forces of the earth, death is the most vanquished. Sunflowers, guppies, rabbits, lichens, lilies, oaks, bats, cockroaches  — look how they beat death down.

Every time any living thing dies, after having reproduced itself, death loses again.

Always one step ahead of the grim reaper are the spring-blessed, over-sexed, very next sowers.