i want to write a letter
but only jagged thoughts,
half formed
rise to the top
they need more dressing,
they need legs
but i can't will the concentration
i'm invigorated by the ideas
but they are naked
not ready for show,
not ready for you
only ideas with soft bellies
exposed hides
ripe for spearing
you'd kill them
dismiss me
taciturn outside
tumult inside
i thrash for an anchor but fall resigned
the prose won't come
this is an autodidact's lament
none of this comes naturally to me
mine is an intellect of intention
born of personality, not nature
so much distress for so long
because I mistook potentialities for realities
so now I sow pitiful grappling hooks
and write shitty poetry
Friday, February 20, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
I will win
you peevish, small man
to belittle me?
you fool!
my mind went blank
how I shook for a clever retort
a withering put-down
a riposte straight to your heart
but nothing.
humiliated, I despaired
but then!
I saw their eyes
and I angled to let them witness me
pity my resigned and downcast stare
you will lose!
the innocent is exalted
the guilty condemned
this slight will pass from your mind
but not from mine
the others will hate you
I will sow the seeds of your contempt
nurture the sproutlings of your censure
I will raise a smothering jungle!
enjoy the self-satisfaction of your affront
illusory highs will stalk your fated alienation!
I am dedicated
I will win
to belittle me?
you fool!
my mind went blank
how I shook for a clever retort
a withering put-down
a riposte straight to your heart
but nothing.
humiliated, I despaired
but then!
I saw their eyes
and I angled to let them witness me
pity my resigned and downcast stare
you will lose!
the innocent is exalted
the guilty condemned
this slight will pass from your mind
but not from mine
the others will hate you
I will sow the seeds of your contempt
nurture the sproutlings of your censure
I will raise a smothering jungle!
enjoy the self-satisfaction of your affront
illusory highs will stalk your fated alienation!
I am dedicated
I will win
Monday, February 2, 2009
beautiful song
been looping this song for weeks. i love the lyrics--the biblical references, faith's language co-opted for romantic love. it makes me want to fall in (desirous) love, to feel love. experience that for someone.
video's a bit camp. sure, lennox is white-girl-soul-ing it up, but I had hoped that her music-videoed vocals would be ascending toward transcendence a little more reverently and conservatively instead of riding irridescent bands emanating from a silver catsuit-ed lennox. oh well.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
death
My former roommate, Ryan, whom I lived with during my sophomore year of college, was murdered the day after Christmas. Over a drink placed on a billiard table. Stabbed to death in a parking lot. 22 years old. Youthful and animated. Now recumbent, decaying.
For a few minutes after receiving the link to the news story ("Son of prominent I.E. pastor stabbed to death in Temecula bar fight Friday night") I could barely stand. There must have been anguish and blood and slipping away. And what of his embodiment so familiar to me? Lifeless? How? What?
My head was light, my utterances breathy, my face listless and mouth agape. Bending over, I clutched my legs—my insides were churning and I needed to recoup solidity. Though I didn't act on it, I felt a desire to crouch in a corner, perpendicular walls flanking my body. Then the mind finds a strain it can grasp—you think about how this is affecting you. Thoughts must be verbalized and responded to. And then you reach for your cell phone. And you start calling others.
Untimely death, like nothing else, leads to uneasy, yet deliberate reflection—but also these bouts of shocked head shaking and resignment. Unrelated thought streams are interrupted with an exhalation and a subdued declaration, "he's really dead." It confounds the mind. Repeatedly.
Mental energy is devoted to the usual time travel fantasies and the what-ifs of Byzantine cause and effect etiologies. You entertain visions of vigilante justice meted out brutally and mercilessly. And you think of his body—his hands and his face once supple and animated, now deteriorating. You vacillate between the indecorum of macabre posturing and the righteous defense of hard reality in lieu of white misty souls ascending to heaven. You think about his salvation. What happened to everything-him?
Physicalist Christian that I mostly am, there is no comfort for me in the pieties that "he is now with Jesus" or "receiving his reward." His embodied existence, i.e., his total personal existence, is over. There is no breath in his body. In my amateur estimation, "he" is awaiting resurrection and in the meantime the "he" that remains is a memory, a void in the context and relationships he shaped but from which he is now absent. Reality marches on, except, now, without the influence of his agency here or anywhere.
His ceased existence challenges my own and the ominous fact of non-breath is unsettling everything-me.
For a few minutes after receiving the link to the news story ("Son of prominent I.E. pastor stabbed to death in Temecula bar fight Friday night") I could barely stand. There must have been anguish and blood and slipping away. And what of his embodiment so familiar to me? Lifeless? How? What?
My head was light, my utterances breathy, my face listless and mouth agape. Bending over, I clutched my legs—my insides were churning and I needed to recoup solidity. Though I didn't act on it, I felt a desire to crouch in a corner, perpendicular walls flanking my body. Then the mind finds a strain it can grasp—you think about how this is affecting you. Thoughts must be verbalized and responded to. And then you reach for your cell phone. And you start calling others.
Untimely death, like nothing else, leads to uneasy, yet deliberate reflection—but also these bouts of shocked head shaking and resignment. Unrelated thought streams are interrupted with an exhalation and a subdued declaration, "he's really dead." It confounds the mind. Repeatedly.
Mental energy is devoted to the usual time travel fantasies and the what-ifs of Byzantine cause and effect etiologies. You entertain visions of vigilante justice meted out brutally and mercilessly. And you think of his body—his hands and his face once supple and animated, now deteriorating. You vacillate between the indecorum of macabre posturing and the righteous defense of hard reality in lieu of white misty souls ascending to heaven. You think about his salvation. What happened to everything-him?
Physicalist Christian that I mostly am, there is no comfort for me in the pieties that "he is now with Jesus" or "receiving his reward." His embodied existence, i.e., his total personal existence, is over. There is no breath in his body. In my amateur estimation, "he" is awaiting resurrection and in the meantime the "he" that remains is a memory, a void in the context and relationships he shaped but from which he is now absent. Reality marches on, except, now, without the influence of his agency here or anywhere.
His ceased existence challenges my own and the ominous fact of non-breath is unsettling everything-me.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
history channel shows about Christianity are awful
though perhaps a dozen or so eminent scholars are assembled and interviewed, the producers always manage to contrive a sensationalistic plot with conspiratorial or ominous mysteries. yes, they give a soundbite to Mr. PhD from Yale...but, "oh, hey, what does mrs. marginal crank have to say about this?" then the viewer endures silly intoning from some lady who wrote a book that you can't even get the cover image for on amazon.
most of the shows also begin with some radical, heretofore marginalized or new theory that is the WRH (what really happened), which contradicts popular or generally accepted knowledge.
crackpots get to get on tv and it appears that professors get their words twisted to back up the precoceived WRH (though, I'm sure at least a handful of professors get giddy over the opportunity to share w/ the world their novel thesis originally published in the Northeastern Journal of Biblical Archaelogy--issue 36 volume 4--back in 1996).
I always learn a bit--but it's not worth the cringing!
most of the shows also begin with some radical, heretofore marginalized or new theory that is the WRH (what really happened), which contradicts popular or generally accepted knowledge.
crackpots get to get on tv and it appears that professors get their words twisted to back up the precoceived WRH (though, I'm sure at least a handful of professors get giddy over the opportunity to share w/ the world their novel thesis originally published in the Northeastern Journal of Biblical Archaelogy--issue 36 volume 4--back in 1996).
I always learn a bit--but it's not worth the cringing!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
hold the sentimentality. and i'll take extra cynicism
I took a break from God relation sometime back in May.
To an extent, I got to the end of my neurotic Christian rope. There was nowhere else to go. I had plumbed the depths of sentimental/tortured narcissism. I had sinned horribly. I had glided on clouds, mistakenly believing that something “real” had happened to me spiritually in March. I read Wesley’s sermons and concluded, with only a smidge of doubt, that I wasn’t saved—I wasn’t a Christian.
I mean, I always had my doubts—but I was too ignorant to put myself firmly in the unregenerate camp. So I stopped trying. Scrapped the accountability partnership (though to call it that is a lie—it was one sided partnership for months, with all the, albeit meager, effort coming from my end), uninstalled my internet filters, stopped seeing the therapist (he was on the school’s dole/I was no longer a student), and stopped confessing to my Christian friends.
Parts of me want to ask for help. Other parts think that’s a farce. Ask for help? I already did. God and friends didn’t help. They both gave the only advice they really can: man up, work for it, do it yourself.
I used to think others could help. But they have their own problems—some simply don’t have time for others and some don’t even realize how crippled they already are—their advice hardly even assuages their own consciences; it’s not going to help me in the slightest.
For years, I’ve been acutely aware of my neurotic need for contrived affirmation, acknowledgement, and friendship. So I try not to pursue those—for even if I get it, it’s just a band aid or deeper problems of self-responsibility that I need to work out on my own, or worse, I risk entering some unsatisfying co-dependent relationship with another broken person that deepens my problems.
Well, I’m redoubling my efforts to act and think as normally (read unsentimental) as possible—hopefully those interactions born thereof will be reparative. Plus, my slavishness and occasional pretentiousness induce cringes when I think about them later. No wonder they don’t work; they’re fake. Psychically unhealthy people don’t care and the well adjusted don’t see it in other normal people so they don’t know what to make of it.
So I’m cynical. I know I’m still putting myself in the center. I recognize this as just another variety of over-dramatizing my life’s condition—“if I can’t be healthy, I’ll be special.” --Breaking the mold and doing pre-Christian life my way.
Well that’s that for now. I hope this explains why I’m not going to church anymore nor praying. It’s probably true that my heart’s hardened. But let me also suggest that maybe my heart is just too mushy. Love and grace run through me like champagne—the God of those I can’t engage with because the sinful parts of me cling to warped reflections of those.
No, the God for me now is the God of systems, of theology—of sin and hell, of the condition of man, of clouded visions of heaven. Emotive commitments don’t slay neuroses. Real friendships do. Old-school harsh psychology does. Self insight born of new philosophies does. When the scaffolding in my head it sturdy, perhaps I’ll begin to unmoor from cynicism and allow more emotion into the project. Please love me in the meantime. Oh, wait, don’t.
To an extent, I got to the end of my neurotic Christian rope. There was nowhere else to go. I had plumbed the depths of sentimental/tortured narcissism. I had sinned horribly. I had glided on clouds, mistakenly believing that something “real” had happened to me spiritually in March. I read Wesley’s sermons and concluded, with only a smidge of doubt, that I wasn’t saved—I wasn’t a Christian.
I mean, I always had my doubts—but I was too ignorant to put myself firmly in the unregenerate camp. So I stopped trying. Scrapped the accountability partnership (though to call it that is a lie—it was one sided partnership for months, with all the, albeit meager, effort coming from my end), uninstalled my internet filters, stopped seeing the therapist (he was on the school’s dole/I was no longer a student), and stopped confessing to my Christian friends.
Parts of me want to ask for help. Other parts think that’s a farce. Ask for help? I already did. God and friends didn’t help. They both gave the only advice they really can: man up, work for it, do it yourself.
I used to think others could help. But they have their own problems—some simply don’t have time for others and some don’t even realize how crippled they already are—their advice hardly even assuages their own consciences; it’s not going to help me in the slightest.
For years, I’ve been acutely aware of my neurotic need for contrived affirmation, acknowledgement, and friendship. So I try not to pursue those—for even if I get it, it’s just a band aid or deeper problems of self-responsibility that I need to work out on my own, or worse, I risk entering some unsatisfying co-dependent relationship with another broken person that deepens my problems.
Well, I’m redoubling my efforts to act and think as normally (read unsentimental) as possible—hopefully those interactions born thereof will be reparative. Plus, my slavishness and occasional pretentiousness induce cringes when I think about them later. No wonder they don’t work; they’re fake. Psychically unhealthy people don’t care and the well adjusted don’t see it in other normal people so they don’t know what to make of it.
So I’m cynical. I know I’m still putting myself in the center. I recognize this as just another variety of over-dramatizing my life’s condition—“if I can’t be healthy, I’ll be special.” --Breaking the mold and doing pre-Christian life my way.
Well that’s that for now. I hope this explains why I’m not going to church anymore nor praying. It’s probably true that my heart’s hardened. But let me also suggest that maybe my heart is just too mushy. Love and grace run through me like champagne—the God of those I can’t engage with because the sinful parts of me cling to warped reflections of those.
No, the God for me now is the God of systems, of theology—of sin and hell, of the condition of man, of clouded visions of heaven. Emotive commitments don’t slay neuroses. Real friendships do. Old-school harsh psychology does. Self insight born of new philosophies does. When the scaffolding in my head it sturdy, perhaps I’ll begin to unmoor from cynicism and allow more emotion into the project. Please love me in the meantime. Oh, wait, don’t.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
changing my story
a month or so ago, a very good friend asked if I still wanted to be a marriage and family therapist. I laughed because I haven't mentioned that to anyone in around two years.
but it made me wonder, "from my past disclosures, what else do people still think is true of me?" --perhaps it's (an over-concern with others' perceptions of me) a remnant from the years of very insecure adolescence, or of very present-day narcissism, or fear of early death, in which case I never get to publish, figuratively, my life (I'm more than half sure I'll die young), but mainly I'm taking it as a sign that most in my life aren't the best sounding boards for figuring out my future.
what's rather consistent internally, is just bits and pieces in my friends' minds
even after trying so hard to "get real," cut the strings of my airs, double back and criticize myself this way and that way, reveal my strategic maneuvers--my playbook, expose my achilles's heels, render myself understandable, my good friends still remember anachronistic self-disclosures.
I have great friends and we have relationships that are healthy...it's just that I'm not all that healthy psychologically an individual--so I blame most disappointments on myself, on my petty scorekeeping, and on my inability to form friendships like average guys do.
there are three types of relationships that I long for:
romantic: should romantic love be one of self-discovery? well probably not--or at least not how I did it. the last time I was a boyfriend, I entered it with the enthusiasm and idealism of a novice. she would complete me and I, her. every crevice would get a flash light shone in it, psyches would be unfolded, pretenses would fall and the spirits of two individuals in embrace would conquer the anxieties of life. instead, she was more in it for normal love--not dime store psychoanalysis. we fought until words only made things worse and no amount of mental gymnastics could land me on the virtuous high beam. probably never great to end a relationship with overtures to a love that doesn't really exist, a truce, and a promise to stay away from each other for a few years. but I think I can do it better now. I've learned from past mistakes and I'm a better person now, more subdued and deliberate and honest in a constructive way. I'm not getting into next time so much as an avenue for therapy into wholeness. next time it will be mutual and giving. giving is important to me--it's the whole point: living for someone else. still, I want someone who's OK with everything me. of course I can't split myself open on the first date and play self-psychopathologist but I do expect to get honest pretty soon--because I refuse to make someone commit to a persona.
to be continued...
but it made me wonder, "from my past disclosures, what else do people still think is true of me?" --perhaps it's (an over-concern with others' perceptions of me) a remnant from the years of very insecure adolescence, or of very present-day narcissism, or fear of early death, in which case I never get to publish, figuratively, my life (I'm more than half sure I'll die young), but mainly I'm taking it as a sign that most in my life aren't the best sounding boards for figuring out my future.
what's rather consistent internally, is just bits and pieces in my friends' minds
even after trying so hard to "get real," cut the strings of my airs, double back and criticize myself this way and that way, reveal my strategic maneuvers--my playbook, expose my achilles's heels, render myself understandable, my good friends still remember anachronistic self-disclosures.
I have great friends and we have relationships that are healthy...it's just that I'm not all that healthy psychologically an individual--so I blame most disappointments on myself, on my petty scorekeeping, and on my inability to form friendships like average guys do.
there are three types of relationships that I long for:
romantic: should romantic love be one of self-discovery? well probably not--or at least not how I did it. the last time I was a boyfriend, I entered it with the enthusiasm and idealism of a novice. she would complete me and I, her. every crevice would get a flash light shone in it, psyches would be unfolded, pretenses would fall and the spirits of two individuals in embrace would conquer the anxieties of life. instead, she was more in it for normal love--not dime store psychoanalysis. we fought until words only made things worse and no amount of mental gymnastics could land me on the virtuous high beam. probably never great to end a relationship with overtures to a love that doesn't really exist, a truce, and a promise to stay away from each other for a few years. but I think I can do it better now. I've learned from past mistakes and I'm a better person now, more subdued and deliberate and honest in a constructive way. I'm not getting into next time so much as an avenue for therapy into wholeness. next time it will be mutual and giving. giving is important to me--it's the whole point: living for someone else. still, I want someone who's OK with everything me. of course I can't split myself open on the first date and play self-psychopathologist but I do expect to get honest pretty soon--because I refuse to make someone commit to a persona.
to be continued...
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