Dark Matter

Really tired.

Can’t figure out why I can’t finish this damn paper, which is three to five pages on my opinion as to whether the feminist revolution is over. Backed up by research, of course.

I just figured out why I can’t finish it — it’s a BULLSHIT TOPIC, that’s why.

It’s just a writing lab. I’m so NOT into trying to justify my opinion, which is, “Well, duh.”

Oh, boy. This bodes well for class tomorrow, doesn’t it? Another long night ahead.

********************************************************

My rough night at therapy last week seems to have been some sort of a breakthrough. I feel far less nervous about fucking up my life.

That might not be such a good thing, but then again, I don’t care as much.

I do want to be happy, though. I am owed that — at least, I feel deserving at the moment. I feel like it’s ok to be happy.

Still not pure unadulterated happiness, you’ll note — more the feeling that when I am eventually happy it will be ok to feel that way. I am prepared to be happy. I am open to the possibility of happiness. I am pre-happy.

I could fuck this up, I know. But I am ok about moving somewhat forward.

Hooray, I suppose.

was the day I started working for TJX.

Twenty years ago tomorrow.

Who has jobs for twenty years anymore?

Of course, I’ve done a thousand different things in twenty years — managed a processing crew of thirty women from Latin America and Southeast Asia, a shipping crew of twenty, a huge temporary assignment of managing a group of 150 recently arrived Laotian immigrants who spoke NO English at all, a small quality control group, created procedures for the processing of fine jewelry, gotten my instructional design certificate, designed a million training courses, traveled and traveled and traveled to teach thousands of hours of stand up training on everything from forklift safety and hazmat regulations to criminal interrogation techniques (for our store loss prevention folks) and management and team leadership and project management and…

fuck.

And now I deliver feedback on psychological assessments and 360 degree rater instruments to executives and do executive coaching and organizational development and I still travel all over the map from time to time and…

fuck.

And I’ve had two complete breakdowns, a number of suicide attempts, a range of medications from mild antidepressants to full-on antipsychotics; I’ve given up drinking several times, cocaine once, dope once; I’ve gained 70 pounds and lost 42 (as of yesterday)…and I’ve gone back to school again…

fuck.

And I haven’t talked about poetry. And I haven’t talked about friendship, or love, or anything else of importance.

Twenty years. I’ve been married longer than that; so why does this anniversary feel so much more significant?

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother Boot Knife of Love and Mercy.

Get yours.

I was also the Broadsword of Mild Reason.

Strangely, today I would have sworn I was The Bludgeon of Righteous Displeasure.

Martina doesn’t get it, I know.
It’s not the dancing that matters to you, I know.
The dance is a given.
It’s the choice of dance that counts for you.

There’s capoeira, for instance,
or voodoo trance,
or thrash with eyes
clipped open by X
after midnight in a sleek Hollywood hole.
I once watched a dervish turn his palms
up and down while wheeling himself around
the axis of the earh’s shadow,
and hope and despair fled together.
You could do that.
You could do any of that. I could see you
doing any of that.

Or: you could stay with me
and we could dance
the way we always do.
The way we used to.

Don’t go.
Stay.
It’s just a stupid song.

Admit it: you are a terrorist.

The reason I am sure you are a terrorist
is because we’re finished with the Communists.
You were a Communist once, I am sure.
The way I know you were a Communist
was because we whipped the Nazis
and you were a Nazi
so it was time for you
to become a Communist again.

Let’s go over this again: you speak only when spoken to.
I’m asking you to admit you’re a terrorist
but don’t mistake that for speech. I’m
a hired conscience. I’m in your head.

Let’s go over this again: stand up.
Kneel and hold these Korans out at arm’s length.
No, those are too light. Here’s
the Manhattan phone book. Here’s two of them.
Don’t drop them again; you made that mistake once.
See where it got you?

Admit that you know a terrorist
and I’ll let you back into the party.

Face down, then let’s go over it again:
there is no God but One?
Who are you kidding?
Smells pinko to me.

Admit that you have seen terrorists
and I’ll let you on the plane, just kidding,
I’ll let you in the country, just kidding,
I’ll let you watch TV.

Let’s go over this again,
face up this time and listen carefully,
hear every word I say: tell us where we can find them,
find him, find our way to him, find the bombs,
the suitcases, the bloody gloves, the temples, the
gold. If you’re not with us,
you’re without us.

Let’s go over this again:
you will not admit to seeing terrorists,
knowing terrorists, being a terrorist.
Is there some other reason
you are not with us?
I know a lot of what’s going on and I’m hoping
you can clear up the rest.

Let’s go over this again: do you now understand,
have you ever understood, terrorism?

Let’s go over this again…

don’t fear drowning

tread water
and float

there’s so much in
the tide
that you won’t find
by struggling

feel the moon
moving you

don’t fear drowning

tread water a bit
then lie back

what surges beneath you
what stirs down deep

will carry you a long way
for a long time

I was reading an interview earlier with an artist named Richard Tuttle who mentioned a topic I’ve thought about often — the idea of permission; the idea being that for most artists, one or more people in the course of your life give you “permission” to be an artist — they provide you the space, the advice, the love, the example, whatever, that allows you to chase your particular dragon.

You may have more than one over a lifetime, but there’s usually a primary one somewhere back in time who cut you loose and said, in some way, “go.”

Mine was a student teacher named Jack Halacy who introduced me to Robert Bly and Etheridge Knight (literally, not just on page) when I was fourteen, and who wasn’t afraid to say that something I wrote was bullshit because he knew I had it in me to keep at it, even at that age.

Who gave you permission?

Same Sex Marriage in MA!!!!

Wow. Nothing awful happened. Straight marriage is intact…at least, as intact as it ever was.

Ho hum…and isn’t that the point?

Just found out one of my classmates had surgery this week for just-diagnosed breast cancer. Ah, it’s a bitch of a world, ain’t it?

Nelly’s a sweetheart, of course. She swears she’ll be back for June’s session. I believe her.

In other news, Icchus (the big male cat) is using the fax machine as we speak. That’s not surprising, I guess. It’s the fact that he’s programmed his own speed dial presets that gets me.

(It’s got nothing to do with NIN, by the way.)

I have what feels to be the beginning of a sustained good mood going.

Shhhh…don’t want to scare it off.

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I’m digging more and more on the new Springsteen album.

You must know that I was a hardcore Bruce fan for years, all the way back to the first couple of albums; the first tour I saw was the infamous “Darkness” tour, and I caught shows on tours all the way through Human Touch; plus the Amnesty Tour shows in Philly.

Then the tix got too pricey.

I’ve also been a bit weirded out that the NJ scruffbag we used to follow became the elder statesman, all that heavy philosophy, etc.

(I liked “The Rising” because of what it was — I know a lot of people didn’t, but I will confess that personally, it did help. A bit. I think people forgot who it was written for.)

But “Devils and Dust?” Put it like this: I could see Bruce and Steve Earle touring together really easily with this material. Lots of Dobro, fiddle, and classic folkie arrangements. Good lyrics, some of the best he’s ever done. (Some of the dirtiest, too…example: RENO.)

Anyway, the punk comes out and says it: I’m a Bruce fan again. Dammit.

Went to bed, realized I’d forgotten to take my pills, got up again, now I’m up.

Grr. I repeat, Grr.

the thing is, i think i’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for the whole permanence and messiness of it.

i really like that whole three days in the grave thing. i suppose i could go for a long weekend in haverhill, and that would be similar.

seriously: not happy right now. hope this helps.

1. joined the national bone marrow donor registry today. can’t donate if i’m dead with this one.

2. although rain was predicted, it did not rain. it’s sunny right now.

3. all cats are healthy, and shots are now up to date. they also don’t hate me too much.

4. dug out my old exercise bike and brought it to my dad to use. he just had knee replacement surgery.

5. last few poems did not suck. (edited to reduce qualification)

6. i’m off the most debilitating of my meds, seroquel, for a test period.

7. my mockingbird is back for the fifth year in a row.

8. i’m home alone working on a paper. i’m back in college, and i’m keeping up.

9. i have incense lit and feel like a friggin hippie and don’t care.

10. i don’t feel that naming these things is an invitation to have them disappear. at least, not this minute. i’ll take this minute.

(thanks, d, for the inspiration.)

What his body said
when they picked him up
after he fell
was that he was broken,
not referring to a leg or an arm,
but to a whole man.

I don’t know how we never realized that before.
You could see the cracks
from way off. It’s just that
none of us thought they went all the way through,
and they looked old and almost
watertight anyway.

The only safe place to stand
when looking at guns
is to one side.

When I look into
your eyes, I see gunbarrels,
and I am trying to discover
what it would take
to move that trigger.

If you close your eyes and someone says,
“Imagine you’re looking down a gun barrel,”
which end do you see
when you open your eyes?
I see your face. I see
wonders and dangers. I see
they may kill me,
but that there’s also a chance of resting my head
for a moment, a day, a whole
heaven of smoke and circumstance.

I have no idea what you want.
I’m not sure if I should ask you.
I only know there’s a whiff of black powder in the air.

Black powder guns hang fire far too often,
and blow up in their lovers’ arms.
You might think they’d be obsolete by now,
but there are those
who cannot let things go, and
that’s the way I feel tonight. That’s why
every time you blink, I shiver. Every time you move,
I freeze. Every time our eyes meet,
I pray for the strength to fire back.