Posts Tagged ‘randy Hasper’s modern soliloquies’

I’m sorry if I ever shamed you for your emotions.

Did I, or did I simply say what was true?

The other day you yourself said you cry-laugh, and I’ve seen you do it — snot and not, triggered, then bravely out-riggered. 

Its not that unattractive. In fact it’s actually beautiful  — a kind of moistured sentience, a textured perceiving — an emo-glow right in the pupils. 

People have always vilified the emotional extremes —  or worshiped them: silence, yelling, sulking, telling. 

But with you I don’t think of it like that. 

You fluctuate, beautifully, like a lighthouse, like a human being, being. You experience what we all do  — but compacted, intense — like an espresso machine drooling crema from a double-shot portafilter. 

You are acutely and emotively valid, affectional, certified by the heart, authenticated by the amygdalae, bona fide, good faith, unfaked, affectowoobly, then sure-footed. 

You are for all of us who know you well our own special emotional banquet. 

I think of you as my feeling friend, an affective millionaire, an emotive genius — undone, super fun, on the run, heart flung. 

Please keep doing this — feeling —  and of course you will, and I will too, and everyone else — blushing, gushing, singing, adjusting, anything but stuffing it, and hushing yourself or anyone else up too much. 

Do this — do anything but dodge the central nervous system, or quell it. Do anything but deny, shrivel or flatten your emotions.  

Do this. Do what you do best — rise, summit; dive, plummet; roar, soar. 

And then finally, always remember that I love you, all of you, and in doing so I love myself, and all of us — all living, reacting, trembling, responding things, the earth’s shuddering skin bags of weeping and whooping, all gorgeous fragile, feeling things. 

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Frighteningly high mountain cliffs, from a distance,

And in evening light, may appear as a smooth, soft and safe wonder to us.

And a life with missteps, and drops and falls into this or that plunging cravass,

May later, near the end, appear a softer and more beautiful thing.

How we chose to remember what was sharp or hard or full of harm will make it what it was to us.

With but a little more distance we might yet remember,

That at our psyche’s shocking birth we were astonished,

In puberty thrilled.

In our middle years we were astounded.

In old aged sat amazed.

And in the end, dreamily drifting down death’s deep drop, if we so choose,

We may find that we are knocked over and ploughed under with wonder.