he gave me two notebooks
before he left when i turned eighteen:
one blue. one yellow.
both three subject, mead, spiral bound
150 sheets/college ruled
9 1/2 x 6/24.1 x 15.2 cm
price tag from thrifty’s drugs $2.55.
they smell of mildew, dead letters
and faded recollections.
spirals warped and hinting
with the grit of rust.
teal lines in various stages of
pale decline. the words dark black
english. farsi. spiritual.
quotes from jesus to rumi in neat script.
intermittent drawings begging to be tattoos.
psychedelic lines wanting to carve skin and
embed themselves like topographical
transcendental lines on a map.
pages exposing this seeker on a hunt
for escape or meaning
something other, beyond:
the edge of the edge.
he read carlos castaneda books on the toilet
training in shamanism that he received
under the tutelage of a yaqui.
those trips imprinted in the drawings.
care of the soul is more than hunger for bread.
there is a pumpkin bread recipe in there
and a daily schedule that has him rising
at four am and in bed at nine:
mediating, painting, working, gardening.
fatherhood for him was leaving clues.
maybe somewhere beyond this world
we will finally meet and i can stitch them
back together for him and share a few of my own.
Showing posts with label Rumi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rumi. Show all posts
November 17, 2021
321/365
January 28, 2016
A Tornado Is Coming
I read the news today oh boy!
The Iranian president, now that the sanctions have been removed, has been gallivanting around Europe. First on a trip to Italy and now he is in France buying up airbuses and making deals with car manufactures.
At first this trip, or at least the symbolism of it, made me happy. After decades behind the veil, it feels like Iran might finally be moving away from the global pariah state. The picture of the President and the Pope was somewhat endearing. You see, we Iranian don’t see our leaders hobnobbing with the likes of people like the Pope too often. It feels strange and somehow important.
Maybe this could be a sign that Iran is finally about to re-enter the world of nations, instead of being on the Axis of Evil, denying the Holocaust, supporting Hezbollah or making nuclear bombs.
But as I read further, by newly found joy and mirth turned to skepticism, frustration and eventual rage. (It’s a joy being me.)
I began to think about how Rouhani and his chums, the clerics and mullahs, are going to benefit the most from the release of over 100 billion dollars worth of frozen assets. There is no way they will use that money to build Iran. For almost thirty years these bastards have been in charge and for what? How have they ever improved life for most Iranians? When have they ever been decent enough to think of the people they rule instead of lining their own pockets and pushing their backwards dogma?
Then I read about the statues and the wine, and I lost it!
So apparently when he was in Italy, the Vatican covered up all the nude paintings so as not to offend his holiness. In his defense, he did ask for this to be done, but the Vatican felt it would be a nice thing to do.
Well, is that swell. But get this! He was meant to lunch with the French president today. And in this case, he did ask that there be Halal meat on the table, fair enough, but that they also remove wine from the menu and not have any on the table.
Really? Really? Are we dealing with children here, that we have to worry that he might be offended of possibly seeing a few boobs and a penis, and that if he is even around a glass of wine…that what? What would happen exactly? Is he not the ruler of a nation, a people who’s history is over two thousand years old? Has he not been educated to realise that maybe the french like to drink some fuckin’ wine with their meal, and that maybe, just maybe, he can ignore it?
So the meal was canceled, because the French refused to remove the wine! Viva Le France. They offered a breakfast instead, but Rouhani refused, saying that was “too cheap.” Palm to the face.
As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, in Iran, the Supreme Leader and his cronies have decided to ban the word wine from all books published in Iran.
Ban the word wine!
It’s almost too idiotic to believe. Who do they think they are leading? A bunch of morons? We Iranians are the people of Hafez and Rumi. (The symbol of wine, as in the drunkness of the beloved) is in our blood and our poetry.
"Bring the pure wine of
love and freedom.
But sir, a tornado is coming.
More wine, we'll teach this storm
A thing or two about whirling. "
I just don’t get it. The people of Iran, with our poetry and food and culture and history are like a magical gem that can and should shed light on the people of the world. We are The Persians for goodness sake. We were doing civilisation before anyone else. And what do these jack-offs in charge do with this gem? They cover it up. Try to remove its magic and in the process hide it from the world, as if it is theirs to control.
So yeah, the president of Iran is buying planes in France, but we are still a long way from Iran taking its place on the world stage. Not sure how much longer we will have to wait for freedom from this madness. Still hoping I see it in my life time.
…
It seems that I get hot and bothered about news stories I can’t do much about, and I am very happy when talking about my teaching and my new exercise routine (did body pump again today)
It’s been strange and thought proving to write every night for the last 29 days. It’s a lot like running, as I rarely want to do either. It’s hard as hell while I am trying to pull out the thoughts and dress them in words, finding something important or interesting or funny to say. And it feels pretty good when it is all said and posted. It is forcing me to really be aware of the thoughts I find valuable and carry around with me throughout the day.
...
My trip to Kenya is only a week away- I am ready to sit on Jason’s porch and watch the sunset and talk and catch up and see my best friend again. As we get older and live farther and farther away from our closest friends, we learn to value the short visits we can sneak in. It has been a year since I saw him and I will only be at Daraja for a week, and will be busy taking care of students, but those nights when everyone is asleep and we sit and watch the stars and talk about the past, present and future…..well that is what heaven is like. Friendships that have lasted twenty plus years are what make life worth living.
…
I hate that Donald Trump is making Ted Cruz look like a viable candidate. But I love how Bernie Sanders is making Hilary look like less of one.
...
Lessons Learned:
The Iranian president, now that the sanctions have been removed, has been gallivanting around Europe. First on a trip to Italy and now he is in France buying up airbuses and making deals with car manufactures.
At first this trip, or at least the symbolism of it, made me happy. After decades behind the veil, it feels like Iran might finally be moving away from the global pariah state. The picture of the President and the Pope was somewhat endearing. You see, we Iranian don’t see our leaders hobnobbing with the likes of people like the Pope too often. It feels strange and somehow important.
Maybe this could be a sign that Iran is finally about to re-enter the world of nations, instead of being on the Axis of Evil, denying the Holocaust, supporting Hezbollah or making nuclear bombs.
But as I read further, by newly found joy and mirth turned to skepticism, frustration and eventual rage. (It’s a joy being me.)
I began to think about how Rouhani and his chums, the clerics and mullahs, are going to benefit the most from the release of over 100 billion dollars worth of frozen assets. There is no way they will use that money to build Iran. For almost thirty years these bastards have been in charge and for what? How have they ever improved life for most Iranians? When have they ever been decent enough to think of the people they rule instead of lining their own pockets and pushing their backwards dogma?
Then I read about the statues and the wine, and I lost it!
So apparently when he was in Italy, the Vatican covered up all the nude paintings so as not to offend his holiness. In his defense, he did ask for this to be done, but the Vatican felt it would be a nice thing to do.
Well, is that swell. But get this! He was meant to lunch with the French president today. And in this case, he did ask that there be Halal meat on the table, fair enough, but that they also remove wine from the menu and not have any on the table.
Really? Really? Are we dealing with children here, that we have to worry that he might be offended of possibly seeing a few boobs and a penis, and that if he is even around a glass of wine…that what? What would happen exactly? Is he not the ruler of a nation, a people who’s history is over two thousand years old? Has he not been educated to realise that maybe the french like to drink some fuckin’ wine with their meal, and that maybe, just maybe, he can ignore it?
So the meal was canceled, because the French refused to remove the wine! Viva Le France. They offered a breakfast instead, but Rouhani refused, saying that was “too cheap.” Palm to the face.
As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, in Iran, the Supreme Leader and his cronies have decided to ban the word wine from all books published in Iran.
Ban the word wine!
It’s almost too idiotic to believe. Who do they think they are leading? A bunch of morons? We Iranians are the people of Hafez and Rumi. (The symbol of wine, as in the drunkness of the beloved) is in our blood and our poetry.
"Bring the pure wine of
love and freedom.
But sir, a tornado is coming.
More wine, we'll teach this storm
A thing or two about whirling. "
I just don’t get it. The people of Iran, with our poetry and food and culture and history are like a magical gem that can and should shed light on the people of the world. We are The Persians for goodness sake. We were doing civilisation before anyone else. And what do these jack-offs in charge do with this gem? They cover it up. Try to remove its magic and in the process hide it from the world, as if it is theirs to control.
So yeah, the president of Iran is buying planes in France, but we are still a long way from Iran taking its place on the world stage. Not sure how much longer we will have to wait for freedom from this madness. Still hoping I see it in my life time.
…
It seems that I get hot and bothered about news stories I can’t do much about, and I am very happy when talking about my teaching and my new exercise routine (did body pump again today)
It’s been strange and thought proving to write every night for the last 29 days. It’s a lot like running, as I rarely want to do either. It’s hard as hell while I am trying to pull out the thoughts and dress them in words, finding something important or interesting or funny to say. And it feels pretty good when it is all said and posted. It is forcing me to really be aware of the thoughts I find valuable and carry around with me throughout the day.
...
My trip to Kenya is only a week away- I am ready to sit on Jason’s porch and watch the sunset and talk and catch up and see my best friend again. As we get older and live farther and farther away from our closest friends, we learn to value the short visits we can sneak in. It has been a year since I saw him and I will only be at Daraja for a week, and will be busy taking care of students, but those nights when everyone is asleep and we sit and watch the stars and talk about the past, present and future…..well that is what heaven is like. Friendships that have lasted twenty plus years are what make life worth living.
…
I hate that Donald Trump is making Ted Cruz look like a viable candidate. But I love how Bernie Sanders is making Hilary look like less of one.
...
Lessons Learned:
- I feel a weird pride in my Iranian heritage and I hate it when the mullahs misrepresent what we are all about.
- Writing every night is hard work.
- What do you love about your culture and who or what messes it up?
- What do you like writing or exercise that is hard but pays off?
April 4, 2012
Untranslatable
Spite can be heavy. Especially when you carry it on your face in the form of a beard. According to my Daily Mugshot, this particular beard has been growing for almost fifty days, and it may just be the longest I have ever grown one? It is no longer itchy and I feel pretty damn good about it.
Everyone still tells me how terrible it looks. Today one lady asked, "What does Mairin think about it?" To which I answered, "She hates it."
"Obviously!" She says. She might have well said, Obviously, she hates it, because you look like crap. But that's the thing, I don't feel like I look like crap. I actually feel pretty good. I feel like I look how I feel. What started off as spite, is slowly transforming into a quiet zen-like contentment. A strange sense of calm and comfort. Like this is who I am. This is what I should look like right now. I am nearly thirty-eight, I have two kids, I teach middle school kids about things like art, poetry, and film. This person should have a pretty wicked beard. End of story.
Every man who has ever grown a beard knows what a commitment it is, and with this beard I feel I have crossed over into uncharted territory. So in honor of this newly found optimism, I have decided to follow Sava's advice and end the #spitebeard movement, so I can begin the #lovebeard movement. As if Sava's sage wisdom wasn't enough, it has come to my attention that April is National Poetry Month. (Which coincidently coincides with the poetry units I am teaching at school.)
What is a poet without a fierce beard? I wanted to close this post with a few shout-outs to my favorites. Starting with the raucous avuncular Walt Whitman:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
from Song of Myself
I have already mentioned Ginsberg, but how can you say the words poetry and beard and not think of this mug:
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
from America
And of course the original beatnik saint- Rumi
Again I am raging, I am in such a state by your soul that every
bond you bind, I break, by your soul.
I am like heaven, like the moon, like a candle by your glow; I am all
reason, all love, all soul, by your soul.
My joy is of your doing, my hangover of your thorn; whatever
side you turn your face, I turn mine, by your soul.
I spoke in error; it is not surprising to speak in error in this
state, for this moment I cannot tell cup from wine, by your soul.
I am that madman in bonds who binds the "divs"; I, the madman,
am a Solomon with the "divs", by your soul.
Whatever form other than love raises up its head from my
heart, forthwith I drive it out of the court of my heart, by your soul.
Come, you who have departed, for the thing that departs
comes back; neither you are that, by my soul, nor I am that, by your soul.
Disbeliever, do not conceal disbelief in your soul, for I will recite
the secret of your destiny, by your soul.
Out of love of Sham-e Tabrizi, through wakefulness or
nightrising, like a spinning mote I am distraught, by your soul.
from "Mystical Poems of Rumi 2
Am I somehow suggesting that since I have a beard, I am some kind of poet sage? I doubt it. That would be too daft, but let's face it the beard doesn't hurt. Happy poetry month everyone. Get lost in the world of words and let your #lovebeard grow.
Everyone still tells me how terrible it looks. Today one lady asked, "What does Mairin think about it?" To which I answered, "She hates it."
"Obviously!" She says. She might have well said, Obviously, she hates it, because you look like crap. But that's the thing, I don't feel like I look like crap. I actually feel pretty good. I feel like I look how I feel. What started off as spite, is slowly transforming into a quiet zen-like contentment. A strange sense of calm and comfort. Like this is who I am. This is what I should look like right now. I am nearly thirty-eight, I have two kids, I teach middle school kids about things like art, poetry, and film. This person should have a pretty wicked beard. End of story.
Every man who has ever grown a beard knows what a commitment it is, and with this beard I feel I have crossed over into uncharted territory. So in honor of this newly found optimism, I have decided to follow Sava's advice and end the #spitebeard movement, so I can begin the #lovebeard movement. As if Sava's sage wisdom wasn't enough, it has come to my attention that April is National Poetry Month. (Which coincidently coincides with the poetry units I am teaching at school.)
What is a poet without a fierce beard? I wanted to close this post with a few shout-outs to my favorites. Starting with the raucous avuncular Walt Whitman:
 |
| image source |
and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
from Song of Myself
I have already mentioned Ginsberg, but how can you say the words poetry and beard and not think of this mug:
 |
| image source |
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
from America
And of course the original beatnik saint- Rumi
 |
| image source |
bond you bind, I break, by your soul.
I am like heaven, like the moon, like a candle by your glow; I am all
reason, all love, all soul, by your soul.
My joy is of your doing, my hangover of your thorn; whatever
side you turn your face, I turn mine, by your soul.
I spoke in error; it is not surprising to speak in error in this
state, for this moment I cannot tell cup from wine, by your soul.
I am that madman in bonds who binds the "divs"; I, the madman,
am a Solomon with the "divs", by your soul.
Whatever form other than love raises up its head from my
heart, forthwith I drive it out of the court of my heart, by your soul.
Come, you who have departed, for the thing that departs
comes back; neither you are that, by my soul, nor I am that, by your soul.
Disbeliever, do not conceal disbelief in your soul, for I will recite
the secret of your destiny, by your soul.
Out of love of Sham-e Tabrizi, through wakefulness or
nightrising, like a spinning mote I am distraught, by your soul.
from "Mystical Poems of Rumi 2
Am I somehow suggesting that since I have a beard, I am some kind of poet sage? I doubt it. That would be too daft, but let's face it the beard doesn't hurt. Happy poetry month everyone. Get lost in the world of words and let your #lovebeard grow.
January 10, 2011
Shadow of a Shadow
What is the body? That shadow of a shadow
of your love, that somehow contains
the entire universe.
Rumi
of your love, that somehow contains
the entire universe.
Rumi
 |
| Embrace the shadows today and make a photograph dominated by dark tones, also known as a low-key image. |
March 31, 2008
Freedom
This is where I am right now. This post may be a bit messy and jumbled and all over the place, but like I said here is where I am. A few days ago I received this Rumi poem from my mom:
An empty mirror and your worst destructive habits,
when they are held up to each other,
that's when the real making begins.
that's what art and crafting are.
A tailor needs a torn garment to practice his expertise,
the trunks of tree must be cut and cut again
so they be used for fine carpentry.
I have wanted to write to her and thank her ever since. I have wanted to write something about it, but after a week it has simply floated in my subconscious, and now I offer it to you. I am not sure who you are any more, but I realize now that you have the power to take my job and restrict my freedom. Funny, cause I thought no one was reading these words, and now you are so ever present in how I think, feel, write, and live. I am no longer free.
I am not angry at you any more for taking away my voice, because, really, you have helped me find it. I repeat myself so many times here that even I get tired of it, but I am sorry if I offend. I am not sure what is so offensive about trying to understand peace. I suppose those hell bent on war find peace offensive. There is nothing I can do about that. Remember the enemy is within don’t confuse me with him.
Speaking of Elliott Smith, I have been listening to him a lot lately. I also received this email from my best friend last night:
People can offer sympathy, direction, answers, but we know all of this amounts to little. It's easy to draw connections and sharedness to people through their emotional states, but in the end sadness, depression, anxiety are terribly isolated (and isolating) events that we work out (and through) alone. Whatever i can do to be there for you, please let me know, and if its just this all the better.
It makes me feel good in the same way that Elliott Smith does. I locked myself in my room today with the following books, my guitar, and wrote three songs. Here is the first one called River. I hope to have the others recorded and on a Youtube near you this week.
I couldn’t sleep last night because of my back pain and some kind of weird dehydration. So I sat at the computer and wrote this poem:
12:39 am
can’t sleep
my mind is full of indecisions
not mine to not make
i can’t piss
because of dehydration
or urinary track infection
or some other unexplainable
abuse of my body
my back still stress aches,
i sit in my underwear freezing
in an overly air conditioned house
in the desert
drinking cup after cup
of ice cold water hoping
i can piss it all out and get some rest
the words drip out one by one
i drink my water,
and read Bukowski poems
they have been the only
thing to ever make things right
I am not sure, should I apologize to you for using the word piss? Where has my freedom gone? Are you still there? I figure that I am paid to teach poetry and sometimes in poetry people use the word piss. If that is not appropriate, I am sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame the poets.
I have been reading a lot of Bukowski. Is that okay? Some people go to the Gospels for guidance, I go to ole Hank. Here is what he had to say:
nobody but you
nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit, and/or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it
think about it.
think about saving your self
your spiritual self
your gut self
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self
save it
don’t join the dead-in-spirit
maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your life as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price
only you can save your
self
do it! do it!
then you’ll know exactly what
I am taking about.
So there you have it. Writing poems, songs, while reading to Bukowski and Elliot Smith. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done. Now, it is 1:56 pm. I am thirty-three years old and waiting for my daughter to wake up, so I can take her to water our garden and play in the water. It will be about 105 degrees and our first tomato may be ready to eat. I have been looking forward to that for three weeks. We will listen to something happy and cheerful. We will get wet. We will dance. I will wonder if there is anybody teaching my students, right now, in my classroom to:
think about saving their self
their spiritual self
their gut self
their singing magical self and
their beautiful self
But then, I remember that nobody taught me how to do that. I just kind of figured it out on my own, with the help of some friends, family, books, and my freedom to write and make mistakes. So I am sorry if I offend, but like Hank says- there is a lot at stake here. This is my life and it is the only one I have. I have chosen the power of art to save me, and I am not about to give up on it now.
Check back tomorrow, I am sure I will be some place else....
An empty mirror and your worst destructive habits,
when they are held up to each other,
that's when the real making begins.
that's what art and crafting are.
A tailor needs a torn garment to practice his expertise,
the trunks of tree must be cut and cut again
so they be used for fine carpentry.
I have wanted to write to her and thank her ever since. I have wanted to write something about it, but after a week it has simply floated in my subconscious, and now I offer it to you. I am not sure who you are any more, but I realize now that you have the power to take my job and restrict my freedom. Funny, cause I thought no one was reading these words, and now you are so ever present in how I think, feel, write, and live. I am no longer free.
I am not angry at you any more for taking away my voice, because, really, you have helped me find it. I repeat myself so many times here that even I get tired of it, but I am sorry if I offend. I am not sure what is so offensive about trying to understand peace. I suppose those hell bent on war find peace offensive. There is nothing I can do about that. Remember the enemy is within don’t confuse me with him.
Speaking of Elliott Smith, I have been listening to him a lot lately. I also received this email from my best friend last night:
People can offer sympathy, direction, answers, but we know all of this amounts to little. It's easy to draw connections and sharedness to people through their emotional states, but in the end sadness, depression, anxiety are terribly isolated (and isolating) events that we work out (and through) alone. Whatever i can do to be there for you, please let me know, and if its just this all the better.
It makes me feel good in the same way that Elliott Smith does. I locked myself in my room today with the following books, my guitar, and wrote three songs. Here is the first one called River. I hope to have the others recorded and on a Youtube near you this week.
I couldn’t sleep last night because of my back pain and some kind of weird dehydration. So I sat at the computer and wrote this poem:
12:39 am
can’t sleep
my mind is full of indecisions
not mine to not make
i can’t piss
because of dehydration
or urinary track infection
or some other unexplainable
abuse of my body
my back still stress aches,
i sit in my underwear freezing
in an overly air conditioned house
in the desert
drinking cup after cup
of ice cold water hoping
i can piss it all out and get some rest
the words drip out one by one
i drink my water,
and read Bukowski poems
they have been the only
thing to ever make things right
I am not sure, should I apologize to you for using the word piss? Where has my freedom gone? Are you still there? I figure that I am paid to teach poetry and sometimes in poetry people use the word piss. If that is not appropriate, I am sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame the poets.
I have been reading a lot of Bukowski. Is that okay? Some people go to the Gospels for guidance, I go to ole Hank. Here is what he had to say:
nobody but you
nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit, and/or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it
think about it.
think about saving your self
your spiritual self
your gut self
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self
save it
don’t join the dead-in-spirit
maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your life as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price
only you can save your
self
do it! do it!
then you’ll know exactly what
I am taking about.
So there you have it. Writing poems, songs, while reading to Bukowski and Elliot Smith. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done. Now, it is 1:56 pm. I am thirty-three years old and waiting for my daughter to wake up, so I can take her to water our garden and play in the water. It will be about 105 degrees and our first tomato may be ready to eat. I have been looking forward to that for three weeks. We will listen to something happy and cheerful. We will get wet. We will dance. I will wonder if there is anybody teaching my students, right now, in my classroom to:
think about saving their self
their spiritual self
their gut self
their singing magical self and
their beautiful self
But then, I remember that nobody taught me how to do that. I just kind of figured it out on my own, with the help of some friends, family, books, and my freedom to write and make mistakes. So I am sorry if I offend, but like Hank says- there is a lot at stake here. This is my life and it is the only one I have. I have chosen the power of art to save me, and I am not about to give up on it now.
Check back tomorrow, I am sure I will be some place else....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)