Monthly Archives: February 2012

an essay on the opportunity of being post everything

our society exists upon the principle of “look what I have that you don’t.” this mirrors the very psyche of the masculine archetype. it reflects not only that men hold so many positions of power in so many different facets of the post-modern world but also the very system which has ruled humankind for centuries: trade, buy, steal. all of such are inherent byproducts of the will to be bettered; at the worst, better. it is into this worse case which we have stumbled blindly. though we may curse it the same, we still participate. plainly in the day to day, it seems we’re made to. ever-striving to be wealthier, to be healthier, to be kinder, to be more righteous. in anything, the human mind has been trained this way. to judge, to imprison, to kill. literally and figuratively.

in using the masculine archetype as a metaphor for our global society, one could argue the change of structure within business, politics, etc. is simply to strive for an equality of men and women in such enterprises. but it seems to me this accomplishes little but to perpetuate the notion that one cannot do but participate in the society we have structured numbly throughout western history. can we not see perfectly well this way isn’t enough not simply because male politicians, “religious” leaders, businesses etc. continuously deconstruct every force in and behind the equal rights movement – from playpens to paychecks to pregnancy to prominence – but because even if there ever were equal treatment in this society, the way we live and exist in it together remains absurd.

our daily lives do not need to run on the idea that to dominate is to win. i say, when no one wins, everyone benefits. sometimes differently, but always the same. as childish as it sounds, how can we all communicate this concept more clearly? is it worth the attempt at a mental shift toward openness, honesty, love, compassion, trust, prudence and precociousness in shaping a society where we instead whisper “look what i have. do you need it or do you just want it?” and answering from the warmth of our collective soul?
or is receiving even of the pride gotten in the giving which anyone has ever cared about?
all anyone has ever known to champion.
that whose goal it is even in charity.

we indeed should be sharing everything.
nothing should be left undone in this world simply for the purpose where there is nothing left to profit, for a shared meal is numbers fed. there need not be competition for the bigger half of a wishbone, snapped.
it is merely dry bone.
it exists to be returned to the earth, our mother.
but she gives too much to our post-modern practices. and she really is dying. everywhere there is evidence of her crumbling at the surface. how could it be different upon which we cannot gaze?
how do we save her but in the sharing of her principles?
it has to start with a shift in mentality in all of us; each other; ourselves.
and it has to start at the foundation of our society in the day to day; both intra and inter-personally. what we hide, what we sneer at, what we adore, what we love, what we hate. a common sentiment throughout our lives is that everyone is worthy of love. in love, we cherish the opportunity to help, to hold, to comfort, to call upon. each one of us is different to be recognized as such. to be praised for. to be invisible from.
such is this, a painful process. it requires our attention. it deserves our time. and it warrants our understanding. in knowing this, we love.
if not, men and women; light-skinned and dark-skinned; muslim and christian; the jewish and the gentiles; rich and poor; the learned, the wise, the ignorant and the naive all seem doomed together as conflicting parts of the same character in this tragic play; this psychological disturbance we refer to as reality; slashing and cutting ourselves and each other until only strips of a quilt once adorned lay motionless upon damp grass.
for apart from our consciousness, there lives the simplest of truths:
that we are but notes together in an endless cantata.
all loveliness displayed;
all dissonance placed well in the building of tension;
resolutions we wait for, and on to the next movement.
each string bowed.
each trumpet blown.
each reed whistling to a time kept elsewhere.
strikes upon a timpani whose thunder rips us from our dreams.
our father, the music man.
our mother, the earth; the conductor.
with only soil, there is a strange silence of breath; no beating of hearts.
and where to play music but with the support of feet on the ground.
and who to play the music with, who to play the music to, who to play the music because of, but the skies and its warmth; its winds; its rains; the mountains we gaze upon in wonder; the white capped waves crashing upon black sands; our human ears, the same.
truly are these things not the music themselves? would there be a single note without a soul to share it? or is there something destined to take it from us, even as we give it away passionately with not a thought.
would it be any different that you get something in return or is equal exchange impossible when society tells us to be better.
to be best.
in being at all, there are songs to be sung. and not a single one should be left to the heavens. for they surround us and speak through us as if trying to help us teach ourselves and in doing so, each other.
be honest or your voice matters not.
be open outright or parts of you will be closed off to a view which remains hidden behind curtains no window should keep.
do so and we may search for an understanding of that which lies between us.
the common thread of the battle between fear and love;
judgement and understanding;
control and acceptance.
choose the latter in each case and we may begin to save ourselves from each other.
the world, from ourselves.
all else will follow.
we each must be leaders.

for those who prefer soundbites to metaphorical explanations:

machismo is the problem in our society. it is the problem of our government. it is the problem of our foreign policy. it is the problem in our education system. it is the problem with religious institutions. it is the problem with any institution. it is the problem in human interaction. it is the problem in human relationships.

it is a problem that it is so often recognized as such even as it is championed.

we should be practicing true feminism and holding the feminine in higher regard than the masculine.

interesting that bravado is so badly needed to proclaim sensitivity as the stronger of the two traits.


Marginal Convalescence

Take myself apart; 
Myself a riddle to myself.
Myself as sorry, as my mouth defies my mind.
But pushed to profit there.
Now, sinking in my chair, I’m left a lie.
Now staying there.

Sort of, kind of, sad.
Oh, but angry with the facts
All fallen out and down my back.
No truths
Perceptions simply lack
Their facts
(or often do).
And pushed to profit there.
Now, straying from my chair, as does the fool –
A broken rule.

Lately nothing new,
except a concept swiftly strewn aside.
But plain upon my eyes:
No penchant to proselytize.
To date, I truly mind
That there’s no comfort in my chair.
Not speaking loudly.
Not seated proudly.

Adjectives across my chest.
Contemptuously blessed.
(No dire meaning there to test.
Just inability to convalesce).
Similarly, a rotten mess of words said softly: “only to be fair.”
I lay sideways in my chair;
Forgotten there.

Problems with a city.
Man, the problems with the pity –
Wrought cleanly, but, oh. Really, I do not dig the view.
And lost, without a clue to hang about.
A simmer, ‘til a shout denies its worth.
A chair is just a chair – no idle curse.

Now without a partner –
No, whose name is not a lover.
Yes, it’s simple, but the laughter cuts me down.
I hear it through the evening hours
(I know it’s there.
And here).
In this chair, I’m kept in the clear.
But without a dear to don the dancing,
I’m quickly to be passing.
But never saying where.

Less about the good word “growing” – just showing what’s at stake.
I’m close to being whole – yes, I’m closing in on fate.
With intent to shudder
from this poor, old, worthless fodder,
I am limping toward the finish a bit late.
‘Cause this chair makes my back ache.
And I cannot take the pain.


But only juggling…

The clapping clips my slumbering
And I’m almost resting right.
I’ve only once to gain what, perhaps, is rightfully mine.
But still forgiving what I’ve no one left to forgive –
Because it’s I who’s still to live.
On dusty shoulders I have kicked
And screamed “FOREVER”
A gentleman is so close to lying, never –
Asleep in his favorite chair.
Wind blowing through his hair
And, taken with the breeze, he brings me there.
Always with a kind glare.
And always trying harder.

Simply put: What’s posing
As a prolonged place for dozing’s
Now uncomfortable and losing out to couches everywhere.
But will a wish for wanting what is true
And quick to hunting what is without a clue
Be such a running from what’s quick to climb the stairs?
Will placing blame for bullets keep me scared?
Or is a lonely lot forsaken from the others only brazen and denying their own cares?

It’s a story told.
Its worries old.
Dealing with the lot.
Picking up where was never left off:
The cause of lives unfit.
So, where now shall I sit?

an outcast rarely claims he is pleased with his predicament but to realize how he is different in recognizing how he is the same