bemusing musings

These Things

Written 11 June 2010

These things we do
To take a wrong and make it right,
Or slightly less wrong,
Give us hope that before long,
Progress will be made,
A little happiness will be saved.

These things we do
To push ourselves towards greatness,
Or at least adequacy,
Instill in us a vibrancy
That once our dreams are manifest,
Eventually, we can rest.

But these things we do
To appease the conscience and enrich the soul
Require undying care
Lest the spirit be swept away by despair
Or a complacent daze.
These things we do may never end
But would you have it any other way?

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Just Between You and Me

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Mountains

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The Great Ones

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Ascent

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Just An Act

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Fireweed

Written 18 December 2009

At times it feels like the whole world is crashing down, compromised at the very foundations and tumbling piece by piece around me while I stand rooted in the fear that it might crush me on the way, leaving nothing in its path but a spreading chaos that I am powerless to stop because it is building momentum and all the invisible cracks and fissures that grew through the centuries of struggle between a thousand us and thems have finally broken through the veneer of peace and tranquility to reveal a world smoldering with ancient injury and stretched to the limit by modern demands for food and water and dignity and security and life and love and how I just wish someone would shelter me in their arms as the debris rips through my hope that if I could just shake this paralysis and support the world on my shoulders maybe, just maybe the shaking would calm just long enough for the dizzy destruction to pause and we could all catch our breath and summon the strength of will to save this reality that has hopes and dreams and fears scrawled across it like global graffiti, beautiful and raw as the lives of those who drew the story of humanity with their blood, sweat and tears for no other reason than to live despite the pain that threatens to overwhelm the vision of a better life, a better future that like a fireweed must go through a maelstrom before it can bloom, and is that what we’re going through now? Is this collapse the beginning of something new, rising from the decay of a system whose time has come, with the grim reaper’s scythe swinging at the very cracks I see before my eyes, tearing down the old to provide space for the new or is it the death of a world that sold its soul long ago in the brutal battle for existence when we were blinded to each other’s suffering by our own self-righteous groans that we don’t deserve this shit when we forgot that sharing the pain lightens the burden and knowing that others feel the same and are simply in their own fight for survival recalls our common humanity.

At times it feels like the whole world is crashing down and I am dumbstruck by the sheer enormity of it all, but then I remember that waiting for the end would be an infinite torment because there are millions of people just like me who, instead of turning inward on the off-chance that they might weather the storm, bring their hope into the light of day where it can absorb the strength of those who are uplifted if even for a moment by its presence and regain the courage to act despite the very likelihood that the cracks in the world will swallow them up before a life fully manifests its beauty, but would we recognize beauty if it was easy and ever abundant and not something to fight for, to remind ourselves to see in the tiniest displays of compassion in a dispassionate world that for all its might stands powerless to the relentless defiance of the human spirit.

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These Words

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Heartbeats and Her Feet

Written 17 November 2009

She feels the drumbeat, distant at first, recalling some ancient memory of a womb long forgotten.  That pulse so near pumping one life to another.  Steady.  Strong. Warm.

Deeper than thought, she moves with the rhythm, ebbing and flowing, through the throngs of men who silenced their drums in the name of safety.  But the rise and fall, quickening of the pace and the sudden halt are truer to the primal dance than the listless comfort of conformity.

She hears the drumbeat now, urging her hands and feet to join with the others who have not abandoned the spark.  They merge and break, adapt and change, embracing the ever-shifting tumult of life.  For what is it to be alive but to revel in the very collision of self and other?

She is the drumbeat, calling forth the forces of hope, of strength, of motion, building that distant rumble to a deafening roar of celebration that resounds in the hearts of all who once knew that primal pulse.

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Personal Thunder

Written 23 October 2009

The deep resonance recalls the slow rumbling of plates shifting,
a reminder that all is in flux. To look at the motion
of the strings too closely can make me dizzy
but to feel the wood hum soothes away tension. And how tight
my stance becomes when fingers and strings sing,
masquerading as a soprano. But the true power of the bass
is searching the depths that human voice can never reach.

–

Written 19 October 2009

Patience

patience
is what allows us to stare into the dark and envision light
to chip away at the barricades before us, slowly
steadily
ever working.
patience is not complacence
not giving in
not giving up
but preparing for that timely moment.
steely determination in the face of despair
to fail and fail and fail again
and still stay true.
patience
is resilience
is persistence
is existence.

–

Written 29 September 2009

The Drum

Percussion as an expression of repression,
beating on the drum to forget the beating on the back
beautiful music to drown out the cries of souls
crying and dying and laying in the way of development
envelopment of the means of life under concrete
ripping up roots with the downbeat
as the drum marches on
the drum marches on
the drum marches on.

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Written 25 September 2009

The refuge

Gritty. The smell of baked earth tickles my nose.  The wall behind my back is all the resolve I need to keep standing.  Keep my chin up.

Through a chink in the wall before me, I glimpse a world I don’t really want to see.  You know, the one where I am just a piece of the madness, swirling around with all the others under the whim of chance.

Peripheral vision only goes so far, and the barricade to my left and the barricade to my right reassure me that the universe is finite.

But above all, when I look up, there is no obstacle.  I am not penned in like some mindless cog.  I can still dream that one day I will bust through these walls and face humanity in all its hidden glory.  But I am not ready yet.

These walls we build ourselves are the hardest to tear down.

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Written 14 August 2009

Faux-hawks and Freedom

It was a snapshot, one of those that survives the night now matter how blurry memory becomes.

Cascades of rain rip through the night – we slip on the pavement, soaked to the bone feeling sparks on our skin. How is it that what we seek shelter from in day becomes the draft of life after dark?

Dingy puddles reflect the sodden thrill of city vitality. Hair gel and make-up leave tracks on faces eager to find this release. Giddy and reckless, we roam a cityscape that should instill fear but tonight is deserted save for two young souls armed with joy.

Wine stains on the counter, dribbles down the bottle leave a note for the morning: vita grazie a vino.

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Written 12 June 2009

The Plight of the Patriot

The foundation was fractured by the twin earthquakes of shame and disillusionment. That this country could achieve such monumental failure, yet simultaneously embody the pinnacle of human potential? The list of failures reads louder in times like these than the multitude of simple successes:

Slavery, Trail of Tears, Vietnam, Iraq.
McCarthyism, Abu Ghraib, the Patriot Act.

Our patriot utters a multitude of outraged cries, a veritable crisis of pride.

Each time he discussed his disgust, dwelling on the immense imperfection of his country’s institutions, that six-ton weight of disappointment settled into the spirit of this young man. Will he distance his dreams from the disease of corrupted and co-opted ideals? Focus inward on building the life he longs to lead, erecting walls to keep the shame out and the vitality in. Create a personal microcosm of the world for which he yearns. Beleaguered by unrequited visions, few would be surprised if our hero withdrew himself from association with this country.

In the end, no. Much as he tried, the problems of this country refused to disappear just by plugging his ears and closing his eyes.

This American patriot will not abandon political engagement based on flawed execution. He bucks the placebo of paralyzing horror, refusing to become spectator who bemoans the faults of his nation. Instead he dons the mantle of political agency, seeking to improve this imperfect social experiment called democracy.

And indeed we are fulfilling the epitome of self-determination by constructing our national narrative, which exists not in the present manifestation of our democratic republic but is forged in the as-of-yet unrealized potential for American ingenuity. Democratic structures are not simply the ideal end to be sought after, but a vehicle through which we meet the fluidity of an ever-changing global reality.

Resisting ridicule, this patriot emerges from the margins and ambitiously taps into the latent imagination of a people too long sitting on the sidelines.

After all, the plight of the patriot is to accept the national flaws with a heavy heart yet look forward with head held high.

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Written 23 May 2009, at T4T 2009

Mousse

Panting like a dog
For a chance at delight
The chocolate diffuses
On his tongue, the tension in his head.

–

Written 23 May 2009, at T4T 2009

Fireside

Gathered
in the dark, a few
sparks of collective effort
expand the radiant circle. One by one
they draw near, exhilarated
by the proximity of existent kinship.
Flickers of fire mimic
the growing glowing of eyes learning
to see beyond the burdensome weight of
twilight.
This moment is theirs forever
burned to memory, to be
rekindled with need.

–

Written 7 May 2009

Thoughtsam and Jetsam

Seduced by the siren song of American dreams, telling him that he could be anything he wanted to be, that you make your our own future, that you can always do more, our young sailor left home and set off in uncharted waters to find his place in the world.

He struck out his own, secure in his ability to adapt to the shifting winds, heeding the call of those most in need.  Far and wide he ranged, making berth for months at times, weeks or even days.  His repute grew as those touched by his stay increased with the breadth of his journey.  To each port he brought essential news and trade of ideas, though compensation was slim.

With sealegs beneath him, our hero felt most at ease riding the sway of the ocean.

At sea it was not infrequent for him to spy other such messengers, driven by ideals to serve and connect distant folk.  In amusement as much as collaboration, they began to leave messages for each other, divulging the secrets of solitary sailing, lifting spirits with tales gathered on remote voyages, and on occasion revealing lapses in alertness when vessels nearly capsized.  This fleet of young mariners sailed as the tides changed yet each tied himself into a net of righteous wanderers.

They drift purposefully through the world as so much thoughtsam and jetsam, anchored to little save their dreams and each other.

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Written 3 May 2009, at the Getting to 350 Conference

Company

A goldfinch landed on my head today
disrupting conversation of nothing in particular
to marvel at the oddity that paused in my hair.
Hidden from my sight, the bird’s image in the mind’s eye
Presents a whimsical vision to my eyesight.
In complement to the afternoon glow,
This momentary amusement cements the moment
Of new friendship
delighting in the present.

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Written 24 March 2009

The Gamble

Did you forget that you live a damned blessed life? That you have the luxury to throw yourself to a greater cause, deeper than your daily needs. The world is at large and that’s where you reside, considering the cosmic influence of each act. In your constant Sisyphusian burden to save the world and the people of it, you forgot that life happens too. Weren’t prepared for it, were you? That moment when real life smacks you upside the face and spits in your ear. Forgot, right?

In that sudden realization that your barriers are shattered, that you understand just how small you are, who do you become? Will you become your shock, pretending this never happened? Will you be fantasy, deluding yourself that life will be the same? Will you become the shackles that dare to restrain your vision?

You are not invincible, but the struggle makes you grounded. Perhaps you need this to wake you from your dreamscape and reconnect with humanity. I am the other side of your coin.

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Written 14 March 2009, while sick with bronchitis.

Speechless

Open, my lips mouth the sound of
Lyrics tapping the heartstrings pouring passion -
emotion that motivates motion of both feet
and fantasy.
So simple an act as sing-along such a constant
around the fire, in the shower, of our culture
which makes the heart lift and the body
revel
in its function
yet denied to me through no fault or intent.
As I sit muted by illness, surrounded by the company of voices and their owners
Hindered in my capacity to engage, I begin to see
the burden of communicating to a world that has
forgotten to hear those without voices. How many
are crying out with their silent words bearing witness
to a life that seems too preoccupied? Who tacitly allows themselves to become complicit in the silent ignorance of the mass too busy to spare attention? and who,
tell me who
has learned to
command presence through other means than voice?

–

Written 18 February 2009

Poised

The right decision is simply the one that gets made. We will never know whether the decision not made was the right one because that moment passed and the opportunity changes and we are left with only the choices guiding our feet. I find myself at a point with multiple pathways stretching before me.

Innumerable options exist, such that invariably good ideas are abandoned. I could mourn the paths not taken, but to what end? To distract myself from the present?

Here I stand, charting a course across the seas, adopting the stars and my instinct as my guide in favor of a compass. Letting go of the arrogant idea that I can be anything I want, and choosing to guide myself in the larger current. I am not an island, persistent in the face of adversity; rather, a boat deliberately adapting to the swells of my surroundings. So very small against the horizon yet so entirely my own context.

Choice is eternal and change is constant.

I am perpetually standing at the edge of a cliff, wondering the color of my wings.

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Composed 15 August 2008, dedicated to Mattie Reitman.

Untitled

Listen. Listen to the inner voice. It keeps me in, keeps me honest, keeps me devoted to this life work that exists as that vision in each of us, but has yet to be seen but oh how I want to see it, with a desire so strong that my watery eyes see through the haze of this American Dream to dream the sight of a life fulfilled. A life well loved. A life that I do not yet have the liberty to live, that to 75 percent of the world is still a dream differed. Undreamt. Unsung.

And how that bears down on the vision – it’s very absence presents the sense that despite all our best intents it is a long time coming. This work can break the back by its vision.

But the vision abides, blurred and out of focus as it is. It may be hard and seem far far from the here and now but we do this work so that one day we do not have to. One day it will come. It will come.

On those days when I feel like I’m taking on the system all by my lonesome, that same little voice won’t let me leave, won’t let me rest and slip into ignorant bliss because god knows I’m no longer ignorant.

And you know I am not alone.

We are here not just to fight for justice but to enjoy ourselves and be human. Now. Our community is incomplete and we feel it. Our project is incomplete and we feel it. This is what drives us. Through this work we are finding ourselves. We are finding our people. They are dispersed across the country and world, but still they are there. The trick is to find them wherever we are.

We have tapped into something good and it has begun to flow.

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Written on 12 August 2008, at the Power Vote Training.

The First Night

The heavy glow of thunder at sunset resonates -
Singing in my veins with the bells and mallet
Tense hands and warm wood bring the crisp metal to life.
As the rumble descends into consciousness the hands slow to release the ring to silence, a calm only broken by the drumming in the clouds.
I seek shelter but not to remove myself from this sight; rather I come to a place where I can be with.

and the patter of rain courses down the window pane in perfectly vertical streams
Yoga in the rain, rejoicing in the rain, the beauty of half naked bodies in the rain. And as I sit, surrounded by them the man at peace begins to tell the story. It is a story brought into the world by breath and flute.

From the calm of listening to and soaking in the storm, they come alive in each others joy. Storm past, the rosy glow grows on the clouds as daylight comes to rest and revelry comes awake.
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